


Overworked

by cryptidbf, denounce



Series: People Like Us [9]
Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: """Slow Burn""", Angst, Awkwardness, Eventual Romance, F/F, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sharing a Bed, Symbolism, Trans Character(s), and if that isn't the most iconique thing, it just gets gayer, oops! all stefcole, roy has feelings, roy is a jealous bitch, roy ruins everything, the name of the doc we typed this in is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 114,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidbf/pseuds/cryptidbf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/denounce/pseuds/denounce
Summary: Tensions are high between Cole and Stefan— they've done things they shouldn't have, and now they're stuck wondering how to deal with their feelings for each other. Stefan thinks Cole's too good for someone like him, and Cole's held back by his dreadful track record. It doesn't help that all eyes are on them as up-and-coming Homicide detectives, judgement coming from peers, superiors, and citizens alike.They hope nothing will change, but with someone as observant as Roy Earle, that's practically impossible.





	1. Loosen Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, wow, my friend and I wrote this after rewatching our favorite L.A. Noire playthrough and realizing how perfect Stefan and Cole are for each other. In the context of this fic, Cole separated from Marie after the war due to how distant they grew from each other, and Stefan went up to Homicide with Cole.
> 
> \- denounce (riley)

Stefan pushes open the door to Cole’s office, one hand in his jacket pocket. “Good morning,” he says, “Did you—”

He stops when he notices that Cole is slumped over his desk. Hat placed to the side, tie loosened, hair mussed. Clearly, he’s been up all night trying to solve the case they were working on. Stefan lingers in the doorway for a minute— wonders if maybe he should leave and come back. Then, he closes the door behind him and makes his way over to Cole.

“Jesus,” he says, even though he knows Cole can’t hear, “Look at you. Only been on Homicide for a few days and you’re already working yourself to death.”

Stefan carefully reaches to pull the folder in Cole’s hands away from him. He flips it open and immediately snorts— Cole had trailed off in the middle of writing something. Yeah, that was about right. He tosses it back on the desk and— just stares for a minute. Cole looks _shockingly_ peaceful when he’s asleep. Way different from how he was when he was awake. It’s… a nice kind of different.   

All of a sudden, Cole begins to stir. He closes his eyes tightly, then they snap open— staring straight up at Stefan. He furrows his eyebrows, moving to sit up and put a hand to his head. “Stefan—” He starts, cutting himself off with a sigh. “ _Bekowsky_. What are you doing here so early?”

Stefan shrugs slightly. “Thought I should check up on you,” he says, “and good thing, too. Were you working _all_ night?”

Cole opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. He glances to the folder on the desk, then back up at Stefan. There are heavy bags under Cole’s eyes, his eyelids weighed down by something even stronger than exhaustion. “I suppose I was,” he says, finally. “I don’t remember when I fell asleep. What time is it now?”

“Close to eight,” Stefan says, eyebrows raised, “Jeez, you look _terrible_. You better not tell me this is the first time you’ve slept in days.”

“Well—” Cole stops, eyebrows still furrowed. “Coming up to four days. I’ve had a few hours here and there, it’s—” He breathes out another sigh, rubbing at his temples. “I’ll be fine. Did the same in Okinawa.”

All that earns him is an increasingly concerned look. “Yeah, and last time I checked?” Stefan says, “You’re _human_ and you need more than a few hours of sleep to survive.”

“Bekowsky, I’ll be _fine_ ,” Cole says, a little more firmly. “We just need to crack this case, then we can go home and rest.” He fidgets with his old wedding ring, his usual solemn expression on his face.

Stefan watches him for what feels like a very long moment, eyes trained on his hands. Then, he averts his gaze. “I swear,” he says, “You would probably die without me.” He moves to open the window blinds and stare down at the street. “Actually, even with my help, I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Cole shuts his eyes tight as sunlight hits his face. They flutter open a moment later, trying to adjust to the near-blinding light. A dull ache starts at the back of his skull. “You’re not wrong,” he concedes, shaking his head and moving to stand. “I just wanted to get this case over with. It’s our first one; we’re being watched by everybody.”

“They can just get over themselves,” Stefan says, glancing back at him, “We’ll solve it soon enough. You’re _allowed_ to take a breather if you need it, y’know that? Keep you from completely losing it.” He turns to face Cole completely again. “Did you even make any breakthroughs or was sacrificing your health all for nothing?”

Cole runs a hand through his messy hair, frowning deeply. “Kept running into the same dead ends,” he says. “Too much circumstantial evidence, not enough concrete.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I feel like I’m running in _circles_ , Stefan.”

Stefan says nothing, but keeps his gaze steady. He seems to be in thought— almost as if trying to decide on the best words to use. They must come to him because, finally, he says, “You’ll figure it out. You’re— you. Cracking the unsolvable is your specialty. I could name a dozen cases off the top of my head where we thought there was no answers and then you’d miraculously come across just the right evidence to send the perp packing.” He offers Cole a gentle smile. “Relax. We’ll be in an interrogation room before you know it.”

For a long while, Cole’s completely silent. His eyes are fixed on Stefan’s face, flicking downwards for the barest moment then back up to Stefan’s eyes. “Right,” he exhales, “you’re right. Thank you, Stefan. It’s just—” Cole stops, leaning against his desk. “It’s frustrating. You think you’re so far along, when in reality you’ve barely even started. Does that make sense?”

“Of course it does,” Stefan replies, “Everything you say makes sense.” He moves closer to Cole, then— reaches around him to grab the folder again before taking a step back. “Well, I doubt I’m going to convince you to go home anytime soon, so wanna review what we’ve found out so far?”

Cole lets out a short, bitter laugh. “I doubt I’ll even _have_ anywhere to go soon,” he says, and he immediately puts a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut. That headache’s spread to his forehead now. “That’s— nevermind. Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

There’s that concerned look again. “Uh, you—” Stefan struggles for a split second. He glances down at the folder in his hands, then back up at Cole. “You wanna talk about it? I’m here to listen.”

“I don’t.” Cole leaves it coldly at that, reaching for the folder in Stefan’s hands. He flips it open, turning to where he was before he passed out. Ah— now he remembers. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my personal life, Bekowsky.”

Stefan goes uncharacteristically quiet. He shuffles his feet a bit— tugs at his tie. “Right,” he says, “So, what do we got?”

Cole just stares down at the paper, squinting. He exhales a deep sigh. “I can’t read anything that I wrote.”

“Shocking,” Stefan says, almost teasingly. He takes the folder back from Cole and tosses it where it’d been on the desk in the first place. “Guess you have no choice but to take a break.”

Cole opens his mouth to argue, his eyes following the folder. He breathes out through his nose, looking back at Stefan. “I— suppose so,” he says, crossing his arms. Yet again, he goes silent— it’s less serious, more like he doesn’t know what to say or do. He’s just staring down at Bekowsky, almost studying him.

Stefan crosses his arms, something of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Do you even know _how_ to take a break, Phelps?”

Cole breathes out a weary laugh. “No, I’m afraid not,” he says, smoothing back a few strands of loose hair. “You probably aren’t surprised to hear that I never went to any gatherings during my time at Stanford.”

“I’m really not,” Stefan says. He takes a step forward— reaches out to fix Cole’s tie. “Guess I’ll just have to teach you how to relax once in a while.”

Cole’s eyes are fixed on Stefan’s face, his breath coming shallowly. “You could teach me _now_ ,” he suggests, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands on his desk. Is he allowing Stefan more room to get even closer to him? Maybe.

“Hm,” Stefan hums, pulling Cole forward by his tie _just_ enough to leave a considerably lacking amount of distance between them. His eyes dart down to Cole’s lips, then back up. “You can tell me to stop any time.”

Cole exhales sharply at the pull of his tie, his breath tingling on Stefan’s lips. “Why would I?”

“I could think of several reasons,” Stefan says. Another tug of Cole’s tie— they’re just mere inches away now. “Want me to go over them, or…?”

Cole just grabs Stefan by his arms, pulling him into a surprisingly intense kiss. Stefan wastes no time reciprocating, releasing Cole’s tie and instead moving his hands to his shoulders. One of Cole’s hands finds itself approaching the bend of Stefan’s back, slipping even lower without him knowing so. His other hand goes to rest above it, fingers digging into Stefan’s coat almost desperately. There’s a semblance of _passion_ behind the kiss on his end— as if he’s been waiting for this to happen.

Stefan breaks away for air. He opens his mouth to say something— shuts it. For once, he’s literally speechless— and that says more than actual words. After a second or two, he finally manages to get out, “I should’ve locked the door.”

Cole lets out a small chuckle. “Why’s that?” He hums, one hand still resting on Stefan’s behind.

“Because now I really want to do more than kiss,” Stefan says. He closes the gap between them again and reaches up to thread his fingers in Cole’s hair, pulling slightly.

With a sharp gasp, Cole breaks away. “Stefan—” He exhales shakily, clearing his throat. Inexplicably, his trousers feel tighter. “God damn it.”

That gets a laugh out of Stefan. “Jesus _Christ_ , you’re into that?”

“Be _quiet,_ ” Cole hisses, glancing towards the door almost nervously. “We can’t be too loud. That’s all.”

Stefan grins at him. “I don’t know,” he says, “I think it’s _you_ we need to be worried about.”

“Unlike you, I actually know how and when to shut my mouth,” Cole says. And with that, he leans in to kiss Stefan again— a little more forceful this time, as if to challenge him. Stefan seems to take him up on it, moving to push Cole up against his desk and deepen the kiss. Cole feels a shiver run up his spine at that, like electricity running through a copper wire.

With great hesitation, Cole pulls away again. “Lock the door,” he murmurs, his mouth mere inches from Stefan’s.

Stefan just stares at him for a minute. “You don’t have to tell me twice.“ With that, he steps away and— 

“—Are you listening, Bekowsky?”

Cole’s words snap Stefan out of his little fantasy. He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, “I got… distracted. What were you saying?”

Cole breathes out a sigh, eyebrows furrowed. “I was going over our people of interest,” he says, squinting down at the paper in hand. “Celine Henry's husband, for one. We've questioned him twice now— he seems a likely fit.” He stops, flexing his jaw. “But it's almost  _too_ convenient.” Cole grabs the folder from his desk, slipping the paper back in its place. He glances towards Stefan’s face almost searchingly, his expression unreadable. “What do you think?”

Stefan hums. He’s still trying to come back down to Earth. “It adds up, but— you’re right. It seems too convenient. What else we got?”

“Not much, but—” Cole stops, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms. “We still have to talk to Alonzo Mendez— the last person to see her alive. Maybe he's our missing puzzle piece.”

“Worth a shot,” Stefan says. He glances towards the door, then back towards Cole. “I’m driving, though. I don’t want you behind the wheel when you’re sleep-deprived.” A snort. “Actually, I don’t want you behind the wheel  _ever_ with how you drive.”

Cole scoffs, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I was just about to point that out,” he says, reaching over to grab his jacket from the back of his chair and his hat from his desk, making sure he doesn't look too terrible. He's absentmindedly fixing his tie— and failing. A sigh of frustration escapes him. “So, we both agree we should go looking for Mendez?”

With a roll of his eyes, Stefan steps forward and— hesitates. He’d been about to grab Cole’s tie to help him, but— well, after the way his mind had wandered earlier, he wasn't sure it was a good idea. “Yeah,” he says. He bites his lip in thought. Okay, he can’t help himself; he reaches for Cole’s tie and fixes it. Immediately pulling his hands back before he can make a decision he’ll regret, he continues, “Where do you think we’ll find him this early in the morning?”

Cole just looks down at his tie, humming slightly before his eyes settle on Stefan's face. “Most likely at home,” he says, setting his cuffs straight and starting for the door. “R&I might have an answer as to where he lives.”

“Does he have any previous citations or arrests?” Stefan asks, trailing after him.

Cole takes pause. “I don’t  _think_ so,” he says, and he sounds rather unsure. “I’ll have to check his file again.” He pushes open the door to the rest of the bustling station, holding it open for Stefan and continuing on once he’s through. It’s noisy and somewhat overwhelming, but it’s— home, strangely enough. Predictably, all of the commotion is doing nothing good for Cole’s headache.

“I mean, I guess we’ll know if he ends up bolting,” Stefan says. He waves at a couple of their fellow officers as they pass them. “I’m sure you’d  _love_ a good chase in your state. How’s your head?”

Cole inhales and exhales deeply. “Worse by the minute,” he answers, finally finding his way out of the station and— he shuts his eyes tightly. Goddamn sunlight. “Worse by the  _second._ ”

Stefan gives him a concerned look. “Not much I can do about it,” he says, and mentally he tacks on a  _‘unless you want me to kiss it better_ ,’ “Maybe we’ll get a lead and you can actually sleep tonight.  _That_ would probably help.”

After a long moment, Cole’s eyes flutter back open. “We can only hope,” he says, letting his vision adjust to the morning sun. Once he has his bearings, he heads for their car parked next to the pavement, getting in the passenger side. Immediately he pulls out his notebook, going over case notes in his head.

Stefan slides into the driver’s seat and turns the engine over. “Seriously,” he says, “It’s just not healthy. I’m starting to wonder if I have to  _force_ you to go home and sleep.” A pause, as he pulls away from the station. “Bet you haven’t been eating right either. I mean, you can’t really lie to me and say you have— I know you too well.”

Cole breathes out through his nose, taking off his hat and setting it on the dashboard. “Alright, alright, you’ve caught me,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “It seems that I’ve underestimated you here.”

“I’m a lot smarter than most people take me for,” Stefan says, and he shoots Cole a good-natured grin, “That, and you’re not exactly subtle about it. You just  _think_ you are.”

Cole regards Stefan with a snort. “I’ll just— get something on the way home,” he says, absentmindedly tugging at the ring on his finger. “After the case. We  _have_ to nail this guy.”

Stefan gives him a frankly unimpressed look. “Uh,  _no_ ,” he says, “Do you want to die? You need food as much as you need sleep. We’re stopping now.”

“No, we’re going after Mendez,” Cole asserts, eyebrows furrowed as he looks towards Stefan. “He’s invaluable to the case; he’s the last person to see her alive. We could’ve made a fatal error leaving him be for so long.”

“Cole,” Stefan says firmly, “We’re stopping. You’re going to eat, I’m going to call R&I, and  _then_ we’ll nail the guy. Got it?”

Cole just breathes out a frustrated sigh, running a hand down his face and letting it come to a rest on his jaw. “Fine,” he says, finally. “That works.”

“Glad we can come to an agreement,” Stefan says.

“I can never seem to say no to you,” Cole snarks, giving a slight roll of his eyes. He shifts to sit up a little straighter in an effort to keep himself from falling asleep. “Where are we going?”

Stefan makes a turn. “There’s a pretty decent diner a couple blocks from here,” he says, “Coffee is good, at least, and you probably need some if you want to stay awake long enough to yell at the suspect.”

“That sounds—” Cole stops, as if he’s struggling for words. He exhales sharply. “That sounds fine. Thank you, Bekowsky.”

Stefan glances towards him for a split second, eyebrows furrowed. Then, he turns his attention back to the street. “I mean, what can I say?” He asks, and he shrugs slightly, “We’re friends. That’s what friends do. They look out for each other and make sure the other is okay.”

“I suppose so,” Cole hums. He glances down at his notebook, flipping to the evidence page and going silent as he reads through it all. Well— it’s more like he’s staring right through it.

“You trying to burn a hole in that with your eyes?” Stefan asks, snorting slightly. He’s desperately trying to ignore his rapid thoughts right now. They just won’t  _stop_. “Hate to tell you this, but I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Cole just shakes his head, folding over the corner of the page and closing his notebook. “I may have underestimated how much sleep I truly need,” he says dryly, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. The second hand stands still. He just locks his jaw in place, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

Stefan rolls his eyes. “Oh,  _really_?” He says, “Not like I’ve been trying to tell you that this whole time. Not at all.”

“I couldn’t hear you over the thundering headache,” Cole deadpans. He cracks a small, amused smile. “Though, perhaps that’s your fault.”

“Hey, don’t go blaming it on me,” Stefan says. He’s grinning nonetheless. “I’m  _just_ concerned for your wellbeing.”

Cole shifts in his seat. He gives a slight shake of his head. “I’ve told you time and time again, Stefan,” he starts, “you don’t have to concern yourself with my personal life. I’ll be fine— I always am.”

“Would it  _really_ hurt you to let me take care of you for once?” Stefan asks. A loaded question, he realizes a second too late. Cole just responds with silence, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw set. “Okay, guess that’s all I get for an answer,” Stefan continues.

Cole breathes out sharply, almost coldly. “Let’s just— get to the diner.”

Stefan is quiet for a long moment. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

Stefan slides into the booth across from Cole, pushing a piece of paper towards him. “There’s where we need to go,” he says, and he reaches for the cup of coffee he’d left behind to go make his call, “It’s a little out of our way, but that’s just part of the job, I guess.”

“I suppose,” Cole hums, drumming his fingers on the table. He’s occasionally glancing about the rest of the diner, eyebrows furrowed. “How long has it been since we ordered?”

Stefan snorts slightly. “Barely five minutes,” he says, “Relax. We’ll get back out on the street soon enough.”

Cole just exhales a sigh, reaching up to rub at his face. “I’m running on far too much caffeine to relax,” he says, dropping his hand back onto the table. “As always.”

Once again, there’s that look of increasing concern. Stefan quickly drops it for a more easygoing expression. “Well, if we’re lucky,” he says, “You’ll be able to get some rest tonight. I think you need it. Badly.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Cole says, dipping his head in a nod. He’s looking around again with that same look on his face— he’s impatient. Eventually, he gives up, shaking his head and letting out a short chuckle. “You know, I didn’t realize how hungry I was until you brought it up.”

“Thank God you have me then, huh?” Stefan gives him a blindingly bright grin. “Don’t know if you know this, but you  _can’t_ exactly solve crime if you’re dead as a door nail.”

Cole tries to suppress an amused smile. “It depends,” he says, “If I’m determined enough, I can focus and get a case done with minimal sleep.” He pauses. “That’s how we cracked the Jessica Hamilton case.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. “What, am I going to have to start forcing you go to bed too?”

Cole opens his mouth to say something— shuts it. “I’m half expecting to get a call at ten tonight,” he opts to say instead, letting himself laugh.

“Half expecting?” Stefan asks, “You just gave me the idea. Now I  _have_ to do it.”

For a long moment, Cole doesn’t say anything. He’s fidgeting— no, not with his ring, but with his watch. He exhales sharply. “That doesn’t sound too bad, now that I think about it.”

Stefan just stares at him for a second. Then, he takes a sip of coffee to keep from saying something that crossed the line. Unsurprisingly, it’s gone cold already. “Whatever gets you to actually sleep,” he says, finally, “I’ll do it.”

Cole gives him a small smile. “Thanks, Stefan,” he says, his attention going back to the rest of the diner. There’s a solid minute of silence between them before Cole pulls out his notebook, flipping to the page he had left off on and attempting to go over it properly this time. His watch faces Stefan, the hands standing perfectly still at two forty-five.

Stefan takes another sip of coffee, keeping his eyes on Cole’s wrist. “So,” he says, carefully— slowly. “I’ve been curious about this for a while, but— am I allowed to ask why you wear a _broken_ watch?”

Cole stops, and by the way his pencil jerks it looks like he’s drawn a line across the page. “Uh—” He inhales and exhales a deep breath, staring at the watch. Suddenly, he shuts his notebook. There’s a long moment of silence, Cole’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. His next words come tentatively. “It was a friend’s,” and by the way he says  _friend_ , it’s clear they were more than that. “He— died. In the war.”

Stefan feels a flicker of hope— he pushes that down immediately. That isn't appropriate, given what Cole has actually just told him. He offers an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he says, “I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.”

“No, it’s—” For possibly the first time since Stefan’s met him, Cole looks to be struggling with his words. He runs a hand down his face, resting it on his jaw. “We’ve been working together long enough for you to know.”

Stefan says nothing— he just keeps his eyes trained on Cole’s hands for a moment. Then, he snaps his gaze back up to Cole’s face instead. It didn’t help his racing thoughts. “Still,” he says, “I don’t want to bring up anything that might be… painful for you, y’know?”

Cole locks eyes with Stefan for what feels like forever, his icy gaze holding a surprisingly intense stare. “I appreciate that, Stefan,” he says, and finally he breaks eye contact. He breathes in sharply— his own thoughts are not much better. “I’m— glad that we’re partners.”

Stefan nods. “I’m glad we’re partners too,” he says. He wants to add onto that— instead, he just drops his gaze down to the table. His mouth is suddenly dry. “Couldn’t ask for anybody better, honestly.”

Cole’s jaw tightens. “Neither could I.”

 

* * *

 

As luck would have it, the two Homicide detectives crack the Henry case that day— the evidence towards Mendez was staggering. The moment they left the interrogation room they were getting claps on the shoulder from their peers and commendations from their superiors. The praise was all good and nice, but— they wanted more. Not from their fellow detectives, or their captains, but from each other.

So they settled for drinks. To celebrate, they said, neither of them wanting to reveal their true intentions. It’s been  _months_ of tiptoeing and walking on eggshells— to them, it’s time to throw caution to the wind and take the plunge.

The kicker is— they’re both doubtful of the other’s feelings.

Cole grabs his jacket from a rack in the squad room, pulling it on and turning towards Stefan. “Alright, now, the last time I did this was when we were stationed in—” He stops. “God, I can’t even remember. All I remember is blacking out after two drinks.”

That gets a chuckle out of Stefan. “Only  _two_?” He asks, “Jesus, Cole. My  _grandmother_ can drink more than that.”

“The Phelps family isn’t very tolerant of alcohol,” Cole says, breathing out a small laugh. “My own father passed out at his reception.”

Stefan shoots him a grin. “I see where you got it from, then,” he says, “I’ll just have to try and make sure you stay on your feet tonight. Don’t want you passing out when we’re supposed to be celebrating.”

“Would make quite the headline,” Cole remarks. He gestures vaguely with his hands. “ _LAPD’s golden boy blacks out in bar_.”

“I think for your sake we should make sure that  _doesn’t_ happen,” Stefan jokes. He glances towards the doorway then shifts his gaze back to Cole. He seems… a little  _nervous_. Very out of character for him. “Uh, you ready to go now?”

Cole reaches up to fix his hat, nodding. “Definitely,” he says, mentally cursing himself for sounding so eager. He begins to make his way out of the squad room with Stefan in tow, navigating through the station with surprising ease compared to how much trouble he usually has.

Once they reach the door, there’s a familiar, annoyingly smug voice from behind them. “There’s the stars of the Homicide department. I’ve been looking for you.”

Cole exhales a deep, tired sigh. He turns around to face Roy, his expression anything but amused. “Good to see you, Earle,” he says dryly.

“Don’t sound so ecstatic,” Roy snarks, rolling his eyes. He glances towards Stefan briefly then back to Cole. “Where are you two heading off to together?”

“I wasn’t aware that what we do in our free time was any of your business,” Cole retorts, looking back at Stefan for a moment. He seems to immediately realize his mistake, stiffening up. He’s acting like a damn suspect, and he hates it.

“It was just a question,” Roy says, “No need to get so defensive.” He pauses. There's a devious smirk on his face now. “Unless you have something to hide, of course, but I  _doubt_ you do.” The way he says that indicates he thinks quite the opposite.

Cole sets his jaw. “That would be correct,” he says, “we have nothing to hide.” He’s already heading for the door, holding it open for Stefan.

“Interesting use of the word ‘we,’” Roy says, hands in his pockets. The smirk is still in place.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Stefan asks, “Plenty of addicts you could be focusing your time on.” He seems  _slightly_ ticked off. “Not that you ever do your job.”

That wipes the smirk off his face. “Watch it, Bekowsky,” Roy says.

“Stefan,” Cole cuts in, still holding open the door. “Don’t.”

Inhaling sharply, Stefan turns on his heel. “Have a good evening, Roy,” he says, and with that, he moves past Cole.

“Your guard dog is adorable, Cole,” Roy says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Cole just gives Roy a withering look in response, walking out after Stefan and letting the door swing shut.


	2. I Can't Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan takes Cole to a bar to celebrate. Cole, a pitiful lightweight, gets a little too drunk.

Cole stops at the door to the bar, taking in a deep breath and letting it out through his nose. It looks busy; it’s practically overflowing from what he can see through the windows. _Great._ He turns to Stefan with a tentative look on his face, glancing between him and the crowd inside. “Is it too late to back out now?”

Stefan puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he says, and he offers Cole a grin, “Just live a little.” A pause, as he drops his hand back to his side. “Besides, I’ll be with you the whole time. Nothing to worry about.”

“There’s a lot to worry about, Stefan,” Cole says dryly, his eyes flicking down to where Stefan had touched him. He suppresses the fluttery feeling within his chest. “But— fine. I trust you.”

Stefan shoots him another grin before going to open the door. “After you, then.”

Cole manages to smile back, ducking his head as he enters the bar, his own thoughts drowned out by the sheer volume of conversation inside. There’s people of all types here, talking freely and without much regard for others. It’s already too much. Cole glances back to make sure Stefan’s with him, feeling genuine relief to see him there. “Maybe we should’ve waited to come here when it wasn’t Friday.”

“Maybe,” Stefan says, and he squeezes past somebody to stand closer to Cole. Their hands brush against each other. “But it’s too late now. We’re already inside.”

Cole’s fingers twitch at the contact. He closes his hand into a fist to keep himself from making a terrible mistake. “Right,” he breathes out. “There’s an open spot. Think we can make it?”

Stefan glances down at their hands. “Yeah,” he says, “Probably.” He takes a brief moment before inhaling sharply. Then, carefully, he takes Cole’s hand in his. A perfect fit. “Is this alright?”

There’s a beat of silence between them. Cole’s just staring at their hands, averting his gaze and giving a slight squeeze. “Yes, this— this is fine.”

Stefan swallows hard. “Good,” he says, and he starts to pull Cole towards the bar. Once there, he hesitates and then— he lets go. He’s already missing the feeling of Cole’s hand in his. “What do you drink?”  

Cole takes a moment to think— although, he might just be distracted by how much he misses Stefan’s grip. He hums. “Plain whiskey.”

Before Stefan can say anything in response, the bartender takes notice of the two new faces. Well— he recognizes one of them. “Hey, Bekowsky!” He greets, leaning on the bar. His eye wanders over to Cole, looking the rather stiff detective up and down. “This your new beau?”

Stefan opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. Takes a moment. Then, finally, he says, “Uh, no. Just a coworker.”

Cole just stares at Bekowsky, his eyebrows furrowed. The bartender tuts. “A real shame. He looks like a catch,” he remarks, quickly changing his demeanor and clasping his hands together. “Alright! What’ll I get you boys tonight?”

“Whiskey’s fine,” Stefan says, and he clears his throat before continuing, “For both of us.”

“On it,” the bartender says, giving Stefan a little wink before striding off to prepare their drinks.

Cole clears his throat, his eyes having never left Stefan. “Stefan, did you take me to a—” His throat is suddenly dry. He swallows hard, deciding to rephrase the question. “What kind of bar is this, exactly?”

Stefan averts his gaze. He isn’t sure how to answer that. “Uh,” he says, “I don’t know. I mean— I think you can probably guess, but...” He trails off.

Cole reaches up to run a hand through his hair, inadvertently loosening a few strands. “I’m beginning to figure it out, yes,” he says, staring down at the floor. He inhales and exhales a deep breath, debating what to say next. “...If this is where you’re comfortable, then it’s fine by me.”

Despite himself, Stefan breathes out a relieved sigh. “Really, it’s just a good bar,” he says, “But— yeah, the atmosphere helps.”

The bartender returns with their drinks, sliding the glasses of whiskey towards the young detectives. “Have a good night, boys,” he says, quickly moving to the other side of the bar to attend to other customers.

Cole takes a small sip of his drink, eyebrows furrowing in thought. He lowers the glass from his lips, clearing his throat. “Ah, yes. This is the brand that leaves me on the floor.” His tone is dry.

“Try and stay upright,” Stefan says, taking a much less cautious drink himself, “I don’t want to have to carry you home if you pass out on me.” He glances around for a moment, then brings his gaze back to Cole. He takes another sip. “I was gonna suggest we sit down, but looks like everything’s occupied.”

Cole turns to look after him, exhaling deeply. “I suppose we’re stuck at the bar, then?” He goes to take another sip, then stops, pursing his lips as he stares into his glass. It’s almost like he’s trying to evaporate it with his eyes— there’s still so much left.

“For now,” Stefan says. He peers into his own glass for a moment. Then, he throws it all back and motions for the bartender to get him another. Almost too casually, he continues, “Maybe something will open up.”

Cole’s just staring at him with his mouth slightly agape. “Stefan—” He stops to breathe out a bewildered laugh. “How can you stand to _do_ that?”

Stefan shoots him a good-natured grin. “Years and years of practice,” he says, “You get used to it after a while. I don’t know.”

“Right, that— makes sense,” Cole says, his eyes flicking down to his own glass. There’s a long moment where he’s just sitting perfectly still, that familiar pensive look on his face, until he moves to throw the whiskey back like Stefan did. He only gets about halfway through before he has to set it down, holding his fist over his mouth as he coughs due to how it burns his throat. He looks up at Stefan, eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve just made—” A cough. “A grave error.”

Stefan breaks down into laughter. “I just told you it takes practice!” He exclaims, “Jesus, Cole. You’re gonna hurt yourself before we’ve even really begun.” He pauses as the bartender slides another glass towards him. New drink in hand, he takes a sip and then gives Cole another grin. There’s something… vaguely _flirty_ behind it. “Take it slow. We’ve got all night.”

The provocative nature behind Stefan’s smile doesn’t get past Cole; he catches it right away, breathing out through his nose and returning the grin the best he can, although it is a little suppressed. He ignores the uncomfortably familiar dizzy feeling washing over him, just opting to take another sip of his whiskey. “I thought I could do it,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Turns out I… absolutely could _not_.”

Snorting, Stefan takes another sip of his own drink. Despite himself, he shifts so that he’s just _slightly_ leaning more towards Cole. “That’s an understatement,” he says, “Are you _sure_ you’ve drank before?” It’s clearly a joke.

Cole hums, moving in very much the same way without realizing he’s doing so. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that,” he says, glancing down to his glass. He seems to be fixated on it. “Are you a half-full or half-empty type of person?” He looks back up at Stefan. “I always say half-empty.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s not surprising,” he says, but his tone is teasing, “I say half-full. Guess I’ve always been sort of an optimist. I don’t know.” He takes another sip of his drink. “How are you feeling?”

“Would it surprise you to find out that I’m already feeling tipsy?” Cole asks, letting out a low chuckle as he runs a hand through his hair, further disheveling it without a single thought. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you that I have low tolerance.”

“I considered for a second that you might be,” Stefan says, “but I’ve been proven wrong.” He laughs too and— throws back the rest of his drink. That’s two. He doesn’t bother flagging down the bartender yet; instead, he just keeps his eyes on Cole. “It’s incredibly endearing when you mess up your hair like that, y’know.”

Cole blinks, looking up as if he could see. “I didn’t realize I was doing that,” he remarks, feeling another wave of haziness pass through him. He breathes out a small laugh. “But— I’m glad it doesn’t bother you. I usually just—” He gestures vaguely with his hands. “—mess with my ring.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Stefan says, biting the inside of his cheek. He trains his gaze on Cole’s hands— lets his mind wander for a split second. He’s still thinking about how it had felt to have his hand in his own; he doubts he’ll forget it any time soon. Swallowing hard, he continues, “You talk to her lately?”

Cole inhales and exhales deeply, his expression falling and a subtle frown tugging at his lips. Bad topic, clearly. “Yesterday,” he says, and he has to stop himself from pulling at his wedding ring. “Just— discussing custody, trying to figure something out since my apartment isn't suitable. I get to see them on Sunday.”

Stefan bites the inside of his cheek again. _Shit, why did you bring that up, you idiot?_ He shakes his head— motions to the bartender for another drink. Anything to keep him occupied. “Right,” he says, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

Cole blinks, tilting his head to the side. “You don't have to apologize,” he says, and he reaches out to put a hand on Stefan's shoulder. It's clear now that he's getting a little more than tipsy. “I mean— I don't quite trust telling anyone else.”

Stefan’s eyes flick down to his shoulder. It’s funny how such a simple touch made his heart skip a beat. He clears his throat and focuses his gaze on Cole’s face instead. “Should I feel honored?”

Cole holds eye contact for what feels like forever. He doesn't even say anything until a moment later, almost getting lost in Stefan's eyes. “Maybe,” he says, his hand sliding down a little before he hesitantly pulls it back to rest on the bar. “You decide.”

Stefan inhales sharply at the contact— exhales at the loss of it. God, he wishes Cole hadn’t pulled away. “I’m going with yes,” he says, “Though, you being so open is probably a side-effect of the alcohol.”

Cole lets out another laugh, smoothing a few strands of hair out of his face. “What could've possibly given you that idea?” He's obviously being sarcastic. His eyes drop down just a bit, fixating on Stefan's lips for the briefest of moments. He licks his own lips without realizing it, gaze snapping back up to the fellow detective’s eyes.

Stefan swallows hard. He wonders if he imagined that; his mind does have a habit of getting away from him. And that it does, as he can’t get the image of kissing Cole out of his head. He tries to force it away— it doesn’t quite work. Okay, he needs a distraction. “I should probably go call us a cab before you pass out,” he says, moving to stand up, “Stay put. I’ll only be a minute.”

Cole just nods in acknowledgement, watching Stefan push through the bustling crowd so he can get outside and get them a cab. His eye slowly slides back to his half-empty glass of whiskey, staring at it with a terrible, absolutely-not-sober thought brewing in his mind.

He grabs the glass and throws back the rest.

 

* * *

 

They get to Stefan’s apartment building not much later, the tension between them so thick that the cab driver wanted to jump out and run. But somehow they make it through and here they are now, Stefan helping a drunk and off-balance Cole into his tenement’s elevator. He’s leaning quite heavily on his shoulder, but— Stefan doesn’t mind.

Cole shifts against Stefan, resting his head on his shoulder. “Did I tell you that I drank the whole glass?” He glances up at the taller man, a little smile on his lips. He seems proud of himself. “Wasn’t so bad the second time. You know, the— the thing you did.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, we better get you to bed,” he says, “If half a glass was too much, a full one is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Technically, it's a disaster already happening,” Cole mumbles, his eyebrows furrowed. He’s about to say something else when the elevator doors slide open with a small chime. His eyes are fixated on Stefan’s lips— and it’s obvious what he wants to do.

Stefan spares him a quick glance. His cheeks are warm— whether it’s from the alcohol or from the way Cole keeps staring at him, he’s not sure. Probably both. “Come on,” he says, “My apartment’s just a couple doors down. Think you can make it?”

With great hesitation, he peels his eyes off of Stefan, looking down the hallway. Inhaling sharply, he nods. “Probably,” he says, though he sounds rather unsure. “We have to, anyways.”

Snorting slightly, Stefan helps Cole down the hallway. “I mean,” he says, “I could very easily carry you if need be.” Once they’re outside his apartment, he shifts to fumble with his keys. Kind of hard to do with Cole leaning on him, but he manages it and unlocks the door before pushing it open. Jokingly, he continues, “Do I _need_ to carry you in?”

Cole doesn’t say anything at first, moving so he’s in front of Stefan and— he’s pulling him inside by his collar. He’s just staring up at him with half-lidded eyes, almost pouting. Finally, he says, “Close the door,” sounding eerily similar to what Stefan had imagined earlier.

Stefan swallows hard and reaches behind him to pull the door shut, flipping the lock. “Cole—”

Before he can even finish what he’s saying, Cole tugs Stefan down to his level by his collar, pressing him up against the door as he clumsily smashes his lips against Stefan’s. It’s sloppy and desperate— the polar opposite of their first kiss. Despite himself, Stefan reciprocates a little less haphazardly and moves to put his hands on Cole’s waist in an attempt to steady him. Cole pushes himself against Stefan in a certain kind of way, before moving to pull him back as he stumbles towards the nearest surface— a couch. They both go down— Stefan ending up on top of Cole in a rather compromising position. It’s clear now that Cole is enjoying this a little more than he should.

Stefan is first to break away, breathing heavily. His cheeks are warm again— this time, he knows exactly why. “Are you—” He’s cut off again by Cole pulling him into another tense, messy kiss. Stefan shifts as carefully as he can, threading his fingers in Cole’s hair and disheveling it further. A noise rises from Cole’s throat, his eyes shut tight as he squirms under Stefan to get even closer. There’s a brush of contact, and Cole’s hands go for the buttons of Stefan’s shirt.

Jolting slightly, Stefan breaks away again. Just like that, the more responsible side of his brain switches on and kicks the inebriated side to the curb. “No, wait,” he says, “I can’t do this. _We_ can’t do this. You’re drunk and— it isn’t right.”

Cole stares up at him, his heart hammering in his chest. “No, it’s— it’s fine, Stefan, I—” He stops, exhaling a shaky laugh. “I was _more_ drunk when Hank and I…” His voice dies in his throat, his eyes never leaving Stefan’s face.

Stefan bites the inside of his cheek to keep from giving in. “Look,” he says, “You’re clearly still working through some things and— you don’t want to do anything you might regret, do you?”

Cole averts his gaze, tilting his head a little so he isn’t fully facing Stefan. “You’re implying that— that I’d regret it,” he murmurs, releasing Stefan’s collar with great hesitation.

“Right now,” Stefan says, and he finally moves off of Cole, “I think you just need sleep. You probably don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Cole sits up, putting a hand to his head to steady himself. He’s just staring at Stefan, his icy blue eyes filled with _worry_. His next words come tumbling out recklessly— “I know I want _this_ ,” he says, reaching for Stefan’s arm.

“You’re _drunk_ , Cole,” Stefan says, “You’re not even gonna remember this in the morning.” He winces slightly, as if the mere notion of that is painful.

Cole goes silent, withdrawing his hand into his lap. He inhales and exhales deeply, lowering his gaze in guilt, almost. His mind is telling him one thing— he’s being rejected. God, why did he even think this was a good idea? He didn’t even want to _go_ drinking. “Alright,” he says, finally, “that’s fine. You’re— right.”

Stefan breathes out a sigh. “You going to be alright sleeping on the couch?” An abrupt change of subject. “I can let you have my bed. It’s no problem.”

“No, I’ll sleep here,” Cole says, stiffening up. He’s not looking at Stefan, instead pulling on his watch. He freezes as if he’s just now realized what he’s doing, exhaling sharply. “Thank you for the offer.”

Stefan gives him a concerned look. “I’ll, uh— go find you a blanket, then,” he says, “Be right back.” With that, he disappears further into his apartment.

Cole watches him go, absentmindedly unhooking his watch and letting it slip onto the floor. It clatters, but he doesn’t care. He’s still kicking himself mentally for thinking that this would _work_. He’s not quite sure what _this_ is, but— it feels terrible. _He_ feels terrible. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that he’s losing a few layers of clothing, reaching the last button of his vest and letting it drop onto the floor with his jacket and watch.

It’s not even a second later that Stefan comes back into the room. “Sorry I took so long,” he says, and he holds the blanket out to Cole, “I don’t— I don’t _normally_ have company that isn’t uh, sharing my bed with me.”

Cole bites back a terrible, awful response, damning himself for even thinking of it. “That’s fine,” he says, moving to lie down on his back. He breathes out a long sigh, frowning deeply. “...I’m sorry.”

Stefan shifts his weight to his other foot, arms crossed. He bites his lip in thought. “Don’t apologize,” he says, “You just weren’t thinking straight, that’s all.” He looks like he wants to say more, but instead, he turns to leave again. “Good night, Cole. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Cole realizes is that this isn’t his bed.

His eyes snap open, a pounding headache assaulting his senses. _Good God, what_ happened _last night?_ He sits up with a groan, almost tumbling over the side of the couch with how imbalanced he is. Cole puts a hand to his head, taking the time to look around— this is a different apartment than his own. Very different.

Briefly, he panics— but then he sees Stefan coming out of the kitchen. It’s at that moment that the smell of food hits him, reminding him of his painfully empty stomach. Cole inhales sharply. “Stefan— uh, good to see you.”

Stefan offers him a grin and a mug of coffee. “How’s your head?” He asks, “I can only imagine how terrible you feel.”

Cole accepts the coffee, taking a small sip and wrinkling his nose. Not sweet enough. “Worse than that,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. He shakes his head. “Feels like I’ve been shot.”

“And you only had _one_ drink,” Stefan says, tone teasing, “Hate to wonder what your hangovers are like after more.”

Cole breathes out a dry laugh. “You would have laughed at me during liberty,” he says, setting the mug of coffee on the table near the couch. He idly reaches up to undo his tie, dropping it on the floor with the rest of his things. “So— did anything happen last night? I assume I ended up here for a reason.”

Something unreadable crosses Stefan’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. “Not much,” he says, “Got you inside and you passed out almost immediately.”

Cole raises his eyebrows, barely catching the change in Stefan’s expression. “Are you sure?”

Snorting slightly, Stefan says, “Yes, I’m sure. Why would I lie?” There’s that doubtful look of Cole’s. With a roll of his eyes, Stefan continues, “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not some suspect in an interrogation room.”

“You’re lying about something,” Cole says, taking a sip of coffee. He shifts to face Stefan fully, a light smile tugging at his lips. Clearly, this is a less serious situation than an actual interrogation. “But I’ll let it slide. Besides, I’ll get it out of you eventually.” Another sip.

“I’d like to see you try,” Stefan jokes, “I’m not breaking.”

“Is that a challenge?” Cole counters, setting the mug back down. He pauses before continuing, letting out a small chuckle as he decides on his next words. “You know I’m willing to use any method possible to obtain information.”

“That I do,” Stefan says, and he grins as he sits down next to Cole. “Do your worst.”

“Now, hold on— are you sure you want me to do this?” Cole sits up straight, holding up his arms cautiously. He takes a moment to think about his next words, a fantastically terrible idea crossing his mind. “There’s nobody here but us. I can really and truly do whatever I want.” He can’t help but smile— he’s having some fun, here.

“I am giving you full permission to do whatever you see fit to get me to confess,” Stefan says. He shifts to rest his arm on the couch behind Cole and face him a little more. “Go for it.”

Cole freezes. He obviously didn’t expect to get this far. His eyebrows furrow in thought— then, he gets an idea. “Then,” he starts, moving close enough for their knees to touch and carefully placing his hands on Stefan's thighs, “is this working?”

Stefan inhales sharply. Yeah, that _did_ work, but he isn't about to admit that. “Nope,” he says, “Keep trying.”

Cole raises his eyebrows, humming. He doesn't say anything at first, leaning in enough for their lips to almost touch. Just a few more inches, and— Cole's mind flashes with images of _him_. He pulls back suddenly, looking like he's seen a ghost. “I can't—” _do this._ He swallows hard, letting go of Stefan's thighs and shifting so there's a little more distance between them. “This is too much right now.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Stefan says. Carefully, _cautiously_ , he reaches out to brush Cole’s hair out of his face. He leaves his hand on his cheek for the briefest of moments before pulling it back. “I was just teasing you, y’know? Don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” A pause. “The words ‘I can’t do this’ are starting to become a staple of our relationship, huh?”

Cole stops, just staring at him. “What do you mean by that?” His tone is tentative— almost scared.

Stefan curses himself mentally. He shouldn’t have brought that up. “I— nothing,” he says, “Just that— it’s what I said to you last night, is all.”

Cole opens his mouth to say something— shuts it. He squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand down his face and resting it over his mouth. He's silent for what feels like forever, locking his jaw in place. “...What did we do, Stefan?”

Stefan averts his gaze. He’s suddenly _very_ focused on the wall. “You kissed me,” he says, “Things kind of went a little too far, but I stopped you before they could get worse.”

“Ah,” Cole hums, opening his eyes but keeping them low, avoiding Stefan's face. “Thank you,” he says, finally, “I'm glad you did that.” He pauses, as if he's unsure of whether or not he should continue. “It's not that I don't _want_ to, just—” He exhales sharply. “I can't.”

Stefan swallows hard, snapping his gaze back to Cole. “I understand,” he says, and with much hesitation, he takes one of Cole’s hands in his. Still as much as a perfect fit as last night, but that’s probably a given. “I’m here when you’re ready.” He pauses and— pulls his hand back as if he’d just touched a hot stove. Time for an abrupt change in topic. “Uh— breakfast? Greasy food is a surprisingly excellent hangover cure.”

Cole looks like he wants to say something, his gaze fixated on Stefan's hand. His eyes snap back up to the taller man's face a moment later, and Cole clears his throat. “Right. That sounds fine.” Back to his usual self— rigid and serious, surrounded by walls he's built up himself.

Stefan moves to stand up. “Be right back,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, and then— goes to leave the room.

Cole watches him go, the incessant pounding in his skull growing worse by the second. He feels _terrible_ — no, not just because of the hangover, but also because of… _everything_. He wants— _needs_ whatever this is with Stefan more than he needs oxygen. Cole squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose.

They can’t. _He_ can’t. There’s so much telling him that they _can’t, can’t, can’t_ — he just wants to put his hands over his ears and block out the static, leaving only Stefan. _Him,_ with his handsome eyes and award-winning smile. Cole pushes away these thoughts as fast as they come, shaking his head to clear it.

_I can’t do this._


	3. Tensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy doesn't quite like how close the two Homicide detectives have grown. Cole and Stefan pursue the Moller case, and Cole becomes ill.

Roy is at a loss.

He’s not an idiot— he _knows_ what’s going on. Cole and Bekowsky aren’t subtle in the least. Not a minute goes by that they aren’t making eyes at each other like they want to find somewhere dark and go at it. There’s that, and the fact they hardly ever spend a moment apart. Sure, they’re partners, but that doesn’t mean they have to be fucking _glued_ to one another. It seems like every time he’s in the same room as them, Bekowsky is constantly looking for excuses to be closer to Cole. Putting his hand on his shoulder, fixing his tie, leaning over him to read something— God, it’s nauseating in more ways than one.

It’d just gotten worse about two weeks ago— right after they’d solved the Celine Henry case and went _home_ together. Again, he isn’t an idiot— he _knows_. It’s fairly obvious; anybody with eyes could see it and the fact that they’d come into the station Monday morning with a tension between them so thick you could cut it with a knife didn’t help their case. At this point, nothing did. He tosses his cigarette onto the street. Why can’t he stop _thinking_ about it? It’s starting to piss him off.

Roy runs a hand down his face— goes to light another cigarette. Part of him is screaming that he’s jealous. Another is saying that’s stupid. A third is saying he wants to kicks Bekowsky’s ass— though, that probably lines up with the first. Back to that thing about it being stupid. Why would he be jealous? He doesn't _like_ Cole. Not in the least. And even if somehow he _does_ like Cole— what is it that Bekowsky has that he doesn’t? He’s nothing but a pushover who only got a promotion at Cole’s complaining. Sure, he’s… pretty _okay_ looking, but that doesn’t mean much and if that’s all Cole’s looking for, _surely_ he’s better in that department...

...Ugh, okay, stop right there. That's disgusting. _He's_ disgusting. Roy pushes all his thoughts away— takes a long drag and flicks ash onto the street. The words _‘this is stupid_ ’ keep running through his head like a broken record. Here he is, trying to work on a case, and all he can think about is how much Cole and Bekowsky piss him off. Ain’t that just the way. He wants to laugh at himself— instead, he just frowns and keeps smoking like he’s on death row.

 

* * *

 

Cole’s about five minutes into questioning a key witness, and Stefan hasn’t caught a lick of it. He’d zoned out the moment Cole opened his mouth to speak— and that seemed to be happening a lot lately. There’s just… something about the way his lips move when he talks. Stefan’s not quite sure what to make of it. He shifts slightly— keeps his eyes on Cole and licks his own lips absentmindedly.

It probably isn’t appropriate to be thinking of how badly he wants to kiss him while on the job. No, he _knows_ it isn’t, but— that doesn’t stop him. They’ve kissed twice now and it’s getting remarkably hard to push away his thoughts. He wishes they were alone. He wouldn’t reject him this time. He—

He’s being cut off by Cole. “Bekowsky. We’re done here.” Cole flicks his notebook closed, just staring at Stefan. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a certain crease in his brow— he must’ve noticed.

Stefan tugs at his tie. “Right,” he says, and he hesitates for a moment before standing up. _Damn it_. He shakes his head. “What next?”

Cole moves to stand after Stefan, motioning for him to follow as he makes his way out of the Moller residence. Once they’re outside, he slows down and lets Stefan catch up. “Questioning Michelle Moller’s high school, for one thing,” he says, eyebrows furrowed in thought as he approaches the car. “Then— I suppose we see where that takes us.”

Stefan hums, making his way around to the driver’s side and sliding into the seat. “Who knows,” he says, “Maybe we’ll get a good lead.”

Cole gets in the passenger’s seat, letting out a low, pensive hum. “Perhaps,” he says, taking out his notebook and flipping to a specific page. He looks to be in deep thought. “We should stop at the station. We have to put Mr. Moller down as a person of interest.”

Stefan turns the engine over and starts driving in the direction of the station. “You think he might’ve done it?”

“I’m not entirely convinced,” Cole says, closing his notebook and returning it to a pocket in his jacket. “Almost seems too convenient; it lines up near perfectly with the Henry case.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I have a theory, but— it can wait. Why were you so distracted?”

 _Shit_. Stefan tries to focus on the road— he knows if he looks Cole in the face, he’ll give himself away. “I guess I’m tired,” he says, and he makes a turn, “Didn’t sleep well last night. It happens.”

Cole hums again. “It seems that our roles have been reversed. Do I have to make the ten o’clock phone call now?” He asks dryly, quirking an eyebrow at Stefan.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Stefan says, tone sincere. He bites the inside of his cheek and takes a moment— thinks about how he really needs to work on controlling his voice around Cole. “Just a one time thing, though. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” That, at least, isn't a lie. “Nothing really that important.” Sort of a lie.

Cole keeps quiet for a second, just thinking. “Well,” he starts, his voice dying in his throat. He inhales and exhales a deep breath— _start over._ “I know that I may not have been exactly forthcoming, myself, but you _do_ know that you can talk to me about what’s bothering you, right?”

Stefan bites the inside of his cheek again. “Of course,” he says, “We’re friends. That’s what friends do.” He inhales sharply. “Really though, it’s nothing to worry about. I can handle it just fine.” Can he? He’s starting to wonder, all things considered.

Cole’s just peering at him searchingly, his eyebrows furrowed. He’s thinking again, staring at Stefan for what feels like forever. “Right,” he says, finally. “Whatever it is, I believe so as well.”

“Thanks,” Stefan manages to get out. Then, he makes the mistake of glancing towards Cole and— their eyes meet. Sunlight is coming in through the car window _just_ right, almost giving him a halo. _God_ , he wants to kiss him so badly. He pushes his thoughts away and snaps his gaze forward. “Means a lot.”  

Cole says nothing in response, just dipping his head in a nod and moving his attention to the road.

The rest of the ride is silent.

 

* * *

 

Cole reaches up to loosen his tie a bit, his eyebrows furrowed as he stares out the window. “That’s what I believe is going on,” he says, brushing a few strands of hair back into place. His hat and jacket are hanging on a coat rack near the door to the squad room— it’s rare to see him so casual. “I’m probably just overthinking it, though. Not the first time I have.”

Stefan takes a sip of coffee, leaning against a table. “Might hold stock,” he says, “Might not. Guess we’ll find out, huh?” He stares into the abyss of his mug for a second. Then, he brings his gaze back up to Cole. It’s funny— he’s not really doing anything special right now, but he still makes his heart skip a beat. “You wouldn’t be you if you _didn’t_ overthink.”

Cole breathes out amusedly through his nose. “I suppose that’s true,” he says, flipping through his notebook and skimming the pages. “Now, in the hypothetical world in which our killer _is_ the Werewolf, how would he know the victims’ personal lives so well? That’s what has me stuck, here.”

“Fair question,” Stefan says, taking another sip. His coffee’s already cold and fairly disgusting, but it’s a good enough distraction. “Shame we can’t just ask.”

That gets Cole to actually laugh— he’s even smiling. “We wouldn’t have our job, then,” he says, flipping his notebook shut and setting it aside. He grabs his own cup of coffee, taking a small sip as a pause. “Even if we were still employed, it’d be too easy.”

Cole’s laugh makes Stefan’s heart skip another beat. He’s in deep— so deep he’s practically drowning. “God forbid our job be _easy,_ ” he says, unable to suppress his own grin, “Knowing you? You’d be _bored_ in five seconds.”

“We’d walk in to question a witness and be one foot out the door already,” Cole says dryly, shaking his head with a small smile still on his face. “Too easy, as I said. It’s like a—” He stops, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to think of something. Then, he snaps his fingers. “A puzzle with only two pieces.”

Stefan swallows hard. Despite himself, he gives Cole an appreciative once-over. Does Cole know how cute he is? Surely he does. There’s just… something _very_ attractive about his state of disheveledness. He’s not sure what, but he likes it. A lot. Good _lord_ , what he wouldn’t give right now to bend him over a table and… _Stop_. He tugs at his tie in an attempt to breathe easier and struggles with his next words. Cole sure has a way of leaving him speechless. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, “I just think…” He suddenly trails off as he catches a glimpse of Cole’s hands. His ring’s missing. “When’d you stop wearing your ring?”

Cole glances down, blinking a few times. It’s unclear whether or not he caught Stefan staring— he looked away too fast. “Ah— today,” he says, his gaze returning to Stefan’s face. “Things have been going better. We’re civil, I get to see my daughters more often…” His lips twitch into a smile. “No point in holding onto something that frankly wasn’t real in the first place.”

Once again, Stefan’s speechless. Would it be stupid to read more into that? Probably. He offers Cole his best smile. “Good for you,” he says, “I’m happy you’re moving on.” That could be taken another way. He hopes Cole doesn’t catch it, but by the way his eyebrow quirks ever-so-slightly, it seems that he has. _Shit, reel it back_. “I mean, it’s progress. A step in the right direction.”

“I suppose so,” Cole says, giving a slight hum. His eyes slide down to Stefan’s lips, and—

He’s unceremoniously brought out of it by Roy. “Jes- _us_ , what’s with the atmosphere in here?” He’s casually leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. There’s something accusatory in his tone as he continues, “Did I interrupt something?”

Cole’s attention snaps towards Roy, more out of annoyance than respect. He breathes out a sharp sigh. “Going over case notes,” he says simply, holding up his notebook.

“Well, _that’s_ boring,” Roy says, and he crosses over to them, hands in his jacket pockets. “Of course, you don’t really know how to be anything else, do you?”

Stefan is having a hard time hiding his disdain. “Do you need something, Roy?”

“What, I can’t stop and make small talk with my co-workers?” Roy asks, eyebrows raised, “I didn’t know it was a _crime_ now.” It’s clear from his tone he holds just as much disdain for Stefan. He shifts his attention to Cole. “I said it before, I’ll say it again. Your guard dog is _adorable_. Really, he is.”

Stefan inhales sharply, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Excuse me?”

Cole’s hand goes to rest on Stefan’s shoulder, sending him a cautious glance. “Stefan, don’t,” he says, his tone warning. He keeps his voice low, but that doesn’t stop Roy from hearing him.

Roy’s lips twitch into something of a devious smirk. “You heard the man, _Stefan_ ,” he says, “Stay on your leash.”

Stefan merely glares. God, he wants to wipe that smirk off of his face, but— not in front of Cole. Maybe later, if he’s ever given the chance. “Funny,” he snarks, “Do you actually have anything worthwhile to say?”

“No need to be so touchy,” Roy says, rolling his eyes, “I was just passing through as it is. Have fun with your… _case notes_ , Cole.” There’s the look of disdain again. “ _Bekowsky_.” With that said, he turns to leave.

Cole inhales and exhales a great sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Good God,” he mumbles, resting his hand on his forehead. “Either he has an aura of _death_ , or I’m getting sick.” He pulls his hand away from his face, frowning deeply. “I don’t feel right.”

All sign of irritation is immediately wiped from Stefan’s face and replaced with concern. “Well, normally, I’d blame everything on Roy,” he says, and he reaches out to press the back of his hand against Cole’s forehead. Unbearably warm. “Huh. You’re burning up. Have you been skipping sleep again?”

“No, I’ve been sleeping—” Cole pauses, “—well enough.” His eyebrows are furrowed, his gaze flicking towards the window. He’s staring out at the street. “If it matters, I _have_ been feeling strange today.”

Stefan bites his lip in thought and finally pulls his hand back. “Want me to take you home?” He asks, “I can handle a few things on my own, believe it or not.”  

Cole hums. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he starts, his eyes snapping back to Stefan’s face and— the sun’s hitting him in that certain type of way again. It highlights his jawline, his cheekbones, even adds a little warmth to his icy blue eyes. But one small, specific detail stands out— barely-noticeable freckles pepper Cole’s cheeks. He looks angelic, almost, and it catches Stefan off-guard. “But— I’d much rather be there as well. It’ll probably clear up by tomorrow.”

He’s tongue tied. How does Cole always manage to do that? It’s kind of incredible, really. Stefan’s eyes dart down to his lips for the briefest moment. Even if he’s sick right now, he would still risk kissing him. A cold would be worth it. “You can’t work yourself to death,” he says, “I’d feel better if you went home and rest. Hell, I’d feel better if you took a break at all.”

Cole purses his lips— he’s got that usual _look_ on his face. “I didn’t want to burden you with my own personal issues, but—” He stops, as if he’s unsure how to continue. Eventually, he just shakes his head and continues on. “I may be unable to return to my own apartment soon. Rent issues.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Stefan thinks over his next words. “Well,” he starts, “You’re always welcome at my place. Couch is open twenty-four seven.”

Cole nods wordlessly, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t realize how such a simple action can leave Stefan so breathless. “Is that alright, then?” He looks up to meet eyes with Stefan, the warmth from the steadily setting sun making his gaze feel much more intense than need be.

Stefan inhales sharply again. If only Cole knew how much of an effect he has on him. He almost wants to blurt it out— let him know everything. Instead, he just offers him an easy-going smile. “Of course it’s alright,” he says, “I just offered, didn’t I?”

Cole puts a hand to his forehead, breathing out a weary laugh. “I— yes, you did,” he says. His cheeks look just a bit redder— a bad sign this time around. He sends a glance towards the doorway, squinting slightly. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” Stefan says. He gives Cole a once-over— more in concern this time than anything else. “Before you keel over.”

 

* * *

 

On the way to Stefan’s apartment, Cole’s condition has done anything but improve. He went from being relatively fine one second to breaking into a cold sweat the next, leaving Stefan concerned and slightly panicked. But once they finally got there, they were able to relax— no more worries about the case, no more worries about Roy… just them, alone, together.

The bliss lasted until Cole vomited into a bucket, of course.

Cole’s resting in Stefan’s bed, his arm slung over his forehead. His eyes are shut tightly in a futile attempt to block out a headache that had started between them. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles for possibly the tenth time that hour, “I couldn’t hold it back.”

“Will you _please_ stop apologizing?” Stefan asks, tone gentle, “Not like you could help it. You’re sick.” He’s sitting on the edge— he’s too reluctant to leave Cole’s side. “Move your arm so I can check your temperature.”

Cole just hums in response, letting his arm drop to his side. “Probably worse.”

“Have some faith,” Stefan says, and he hesitates for a moment. Then, he reaches out to press the back of his hand against Cole’s forehead. Yeah, that confirmed it. Worse. “I think it’s gone up a little. Should probably invest in an actual thermometer.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m not really prepared for things like this since it’s usually just me here. Whenever I get sick, I pretty much grin and bear it until it passes.”

Cole gives Stefan a concerned frown. Somehow, it’s even more sincere with how delirious he is. “You have to take care of yourself,” he says, his head tipping back to rest on the pillow. “For me, if not for you.”

Well, that makes his heart skip a beat. Stefan inhales. Exhales. Thinks about what he wants to say to that. “I guess so,” he says, almost lamely, “But right now, it doesn’t matter. You’re more important.” Absentmindedly, he brushes Cole’s hair out of his face. God, he’s so _warm_. He’s starting to get worried again. “Anything you need?”

Cole stares at Stefan for what feels like forever, his lips slightly parted. “A kiss,” he murmurs, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it. He breathes out through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back. “I don’t know.”

Stefan is more than a little caught off-guard. He decides to just play it off. “Yeah, anything but that,” he says, “Ask me again when you’re not sick and I might say yes, though.” Mentally, he curses himself. Did he _really_ just say that?

Cole hums. “Good to know,” he says, mostly to himself. He opens his eyes, gazing right at Stefan. “Are you staying here?”

Stefan shifts slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Here,” Cole repeats, as if it’s obvious. “Bed.”

Once again, Stefan is caught off-guard. “Uh,” he says, “No, I was going to give you some space and go sleep on the couch.”

Cole just sniffs, blinking a few times. “Why?” He asks, cocking his head to one side. He must be worse than originally thought— he barely looks like he’s there. “I want you to stay here.”

Stefan inhales sharply. “We can’t share a bed, Cole.”

“Why not?” There’s that frown— more of a pout, really. He _never_ pouts when he’s all there, only when he’s drunk or delirious.

“Because—” Stefan stops, biting the inside of his cheek. He really can’t think of an actual reason _why_ they can’t. Sure, he could catch whatever Cole’s got, but that’s about it. “Just because, Cole. Nothing else to it.”

Cole manages to give him a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised. “That doesn’t work, Stefan,” he says, shifting to allow Stefan some more room, “and you know it.” He exhales sharply, his expression changing to something… oddly soft. “I want you to stay here. With me.”

Stefan just stares at him, completely slack jawed. Finally, after what feels like a very long moment, he lets out a defeated sigh. He can’t believe how ridiculously _weak_ he is. It takes little-to-nothing for him to cave. “Fine,” he says, “If you insist.” With that said, he reaches out to turn off the lamp beside the bed and moves to lie down next to him. “Happy now?”

For a long moment, Cole says nothing. Then he starts shifting closer to Stefan— close enough to share body heat, even. He hums slightly, eventually giving a small nod and gazing up into the taller man’s eyes. “Very,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Good,” Stefan says. He brushes Cole’s hair out of his face again and presses a feather light kiss to his forehead. A bold move, honestly, but it’s late and he’s too tired to care. “Go to sleep.”

Cole’s lips twitch into a smile at the small kiss, his eyes slipping shut. He looks so _peaceful_. “Thank you,” he exhales, moving the slightest bit closer. “This— feels right.”

He goes out without another word, breathing shallowly in his sleep. Stefan can’t help but watch him for a minute. A thought enters his head and he swallows hard. He loves him. He loves him so much more than he should and he can’t deny it anymore. At least, not to himself. He inhales. Exhales. Squeezes his eyes shut.

Cole didn’t need to know.

 

* * *

 

One thing Cole doesn’t know is how in the _world_ he keeps ending up at Stefan’s apartment.

Well— he knows how he ended up here this time. He was sick and needed to be looked after, that much is clear to him, but what he really doesn’t know is how he keeps ending up here with no jacket, no vest, no hat, and now no tie.

Perhaps the most confusing thing of all, though, is how he ended up with Stefan pressed up close behind him in this small bed. He can’t even move to look around— he can feel Stefan’s face in his hair and his arms around his waist, and it’s making his heart beat just a _bit_ too fast.

Cole’s just about to lose hope and fall back asleep when he feels Stefan stir behind him, stiffening up in response. Stefan’s mumbling slightly, but none of it’s really coherent, and then— he suddenly pulls away. “Cole? Are you awake?”

Cole exhales sharply. “I— yes, I am,” he says, miraculously managing to keep his voice steady. He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Stefan, a light blush on his cheeks betraying him.

Stefan furrows his eyebrows. “Sorry,” he says, and he props himself up on his arm, “I should’ve warned you I’m kind of clingy when I sleep, but you were already so out of it.” He pauses. “Are you feeling any better? Your face is still a little red.”

Cole blinks a few times, putting a hand to his face— God, his cheeks are warm. He just clears his throat, moving away from Stefan and sitting up. “I’m doing better, yes,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

Stefan twists slightly, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Only seven,” he says, “Though, if you’re thinking about going into the station, I’m not letting you. You’re probably still sick.”

Cole opens his mouth to say something, instead letting out a disbelieving scoff. “Stefan—”

Stefan rolls his eyes. “Don’t you _Stefan_ me,” he says, “Have you used a _single_ one of your sick days since you’ve started?”

“I—” Cole stops, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. “Now that I think about it, no, I haven’t. But— this is our second Homicide case, Stefan. The department’s counting on us.”

Stefan is quiet for a moment. Then, he suddenly moves his face in closer to Cole’s. For a second, Cole’s eyes go wide— but he quickly accepts it, his eyes fluttering shut. However, what he was expecting doesn’t happen. All Stefan does is press his forehead to his before pulling back. “Your fever’s gone,” he says, “I guess I have to give in and let you work yourself to death.”

Cole just stares at Stefan for what feels like forever, inhaling sharply. “You could have just used your hand,” he says, shaking his head. “But— I’ll be fine, Stefan. I always am.”

“So you always say,” Stefan remarks. He keeps his eyes on Cole’s— briefly, they flick down to his lips, then back up. After a long pause, he moves to throw his legs over the side of the bed and says, “I’m going to go make a pot of coffee.”

Cole purses his lips, forcing himself to look away. “Right,” he breathes out, “Sounds— yes. You should do that.” _God, shut up before you dig yourself any deeper._ He rubs at his temples, a sudden migraine coming on.

Stefan just nods and stands up. “I’ll be back,” he says, and then— he’s out of the room. Cole watches him go, his eyes narrowed and his skull thundering with a steadily-developing headache.

There’s only one, perfectly clear thought on his mind: _God damn it_.

Then, he blacks out.


	4. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole has a memory. Stefan helps Cole recover from being sick.

“Do you think they’ll remember us, Cole?”

Cole glances up from the book in his hands, locking eyes with Hank for the slightest moment. He gives a small hum. “Perhaps,” he says, and he returns his attention to his book, “but who’s to say there’ll be anything _to_ remember in the end?”

Hank snorts, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think of that stuff,” he says, moving to sit down on the edge of Cole’s bunk. He reaches over and takes the book out of Cole’s hands, ignoring his protests as he skims the pages. “Is this what you’re reading all day? Poetry?”

Cole scoffs, making a grab for the book— but Hank holds it away from him. “It’s Shelley,” he says, as if it’ll make a difference, “and no, occasionally I do read novels. The classics, to be specific— I haven’t read many recent works.”

“Oh, yeah? And what _are_ those classics?” Hank shoots him a grin, still holding the book to where Cole can’t reach.

“As if you’d know,” Cole quips, sitting up so he can finally pluck his book from Hank’s hands and continue reading. He settles back down, taking a moment to speak again. “I regret to inform you that I can’t remember _all_ of them, only the ones that stuck out to me.”

Hank leans forward so his elbows are resting on his knees, his cheek in his hand. “I’m listening,” he says.

Cole closes his book, setting it aside and staring up at the ceiling in thought. “Well,” he starts, inhaling sharply and— “ _Pride and Prejudice, Dracula, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Count of Monte Cristo,_ and these aren’t exactly _novels,_ per se, but all works by Shakespeare—”

Hank cuts him off. “Okay, Jesus, slow down,” he says, laughing more out of surprise than anything else. “I barely got _any_ of that.”

Cole quirks a brow, moving to sit up. “You have to have read at least _one_ of them.”

“Swear to God,” Hank says, tilting his head upwards and raising his arms. “Not a single one.”

Cole gives Hank a _look_ , before breathing out through his nose in amusement. “That’s the first thing we’ll do once we’re back in California, then,” he says, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a rather extensive private library.”

Hank laughs, flashing Cole his own grin. “I’d like that,” he says, holding a pleasant smile as his gaze rests on Cole’s face. “I’d like that a little more than I should.”

Cole opens his mouth to say something— but the words don’t come. Nothing comes. He squeezes his eyes shut, and once he opens them again, all is black. Even in his own memories, Hank is ripped away from him. _What’s going on? Where’s Hank? Who’s there? Stefan, is that—_

“Cole, hey. _Hey_. I’m right here.” Cole's eyes snap open, and there's Stefan. Concern is written on his face. “You’re burning up again. I only left for a few minutes—” He’s rambling; Cole’s not entirely catching it. “Jesus.”

Cole just stares up at Stefan, his eyes focused on his lips. He's trying desperately to understand what he's saying, but none of it is parsing. He opens his mouth to say something, but another train of thought entirely comes slurring out— “I saw Hank, but— he's dead. Am I dead?” He barely even registers his hand going up to cup Stefan's face. “Are you an angel?”

Stefan gapes at him for a moment. “I— no, Cole,” he says, and he decides to completely ignore the angel comment as he continues, “You’re not dead. You just— passed out, I guess. I don’t know. Wasn't in the room.” He curses under his breath. “I should’ve been.”

Cole's hand doesn't leave Stefan's face. He swallows hard. “I'm not dead,” he repeats as if to affirm it to himself. _You're not dead._ Exhaling sharply, he continues, “So he wasn't there?” He doesn't realize how hard he is to understand in this state.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Stefan moves to put his hand over Cole’s. He’s not sure what to say. “No,” he says, “He wasn't. You probably dreamed it up.” His concerned expression has yet to leave.

Cole just gives a low hum in thought, finally dropping his hand and carefully moving to sit up. Bad idea. A terrible ache booms through his skull like thunder, causing him to wince. “God— God damn it,” he manages to get out, lying back down and squeezing his eyes shut. “I think you’re right. I don’t know if I can go in today.”

Stefan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I tried to tell you it wasn't a smart idea,” he says, shifting slightly on the edge of the bed, “Rare that I’m right for once, huh?” He manages an easygoing smile.

Cole scoffs, but it comes out more like a laugh. “Don’t get cocky,” he says dryly, tilting his head towards Stefan. There’s a long moment of silence where he just studies his face, but it’s quickly broken. “Do you have any novels lying around?”

“Uh—” Stefan lets out a laugh of his own. “Not really. I spend most of my free time outside of my apartment, so…” He trails off and shrugs. “Don’t read that much.”

Cole hums, eyebrows furrowing. “Newspaper?”

“No, but I could always run out and get one,” Stefan says. The concerned look comes back full force. “I don’t really want to leave you by yourself, though. You know— in case you pass out again.”

Cole nods, eyes darting away from Stefan’s face and fixating on the ceiling. “That makes sense,” he says after a beat of silence, his gaze flicking back. “Yes, that’s— fine. I’d much rather have you here than not.”

Stefan visibly relaxes at that— flashes him another easygoing smile before moving to stand up. “I’m just going to go make a phone call,” he says, “Let the captain know what’s going on.” He starts for the door— pauses. “Try not to die while I’m out of the room.”

Cole just gives an acknowledging hum in response, shifting to get comfortable. Stefan hesitates for half a second more before finally stepping out and heading for the living room. Once there, he picks up the phone— rambles out some directions to the operator and waits to be put through.

Soon enough, the phone clicks. A heavily Irish-accented voice comes forth on the other end. “Captain Donnelly speaking.”

Stefan inhales deeply. “Good morning, captain,” he says, and he takes a long, long pause. He wasn't actually sure what he should say. _See, Cole’s currently propped up in my bed because me, being the smart person I am, thought it’d be a good idea to take him home._ No, that— no. That says too much. “I was just calling to say that Cole’s come down with something and I don’t think we’re going to be able to make it in today.” Shit. The word _we_ implies things too, doesn’t it?

Donnelly takes a moment to reply, papers shuffling in the background. “Lad, how do you know that? The young Phelps would have called me himself.”

Stefan bites the inside of his cheek. Thinks for a moment. “Well,” he starts, “He was already sick yesterday when I took him home.” A pause. “And he was— in pretty bad shape when I left, so I decided to stop by and check on him this morning. That’s all. Nothing else to it.”

Donnelly breathes out an audible sigh. There’s a long pause where he says nothing, supposedly in thought. “You’re not telling me something,” he says, finally.

 _Damn it_. He should’ve known better than to try and lie. “I _might’ve_ taken him to my apartment instead,” Stefan admits, voice quiet, “I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with how sick he was and it was more convenient.” Okay, now that one isn't _exactly_ a lie. He could get away with that. “He’s been burning up since last night and he’s already passed out once this morning, so...” He trails off. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s fit to work today.”

Donnelly hums. “I appreciate your honesty, and I believe you,” he says, and more papers rustle in the background. “We both know your record, but I’ll allow you and Phelps as long as you need.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stefan says. He winces, despite the fact Donnelly can’t see him. “We’ll try not to let this get in the way of the Moller case.”

“Justice is slow, boy-o,” Donnelly says, “but it cannot be stopped. I trust that you two will make the department proud all the same.” There’s the papers again. “I’ll be finishing up paperwork, then. I have faith that Phelps will be recovered and back to work in no time— I want you to make sure that I’m correct.” The phone clicks off.

For what feels like a _very_ long moment, Stefan just stares at the receiver. Then, he sets it back down. Well, that went… okay. Better than expected. He runs a hand through his hair— breathes in deeply. Then, he heads back towards his bedroom and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “Well, you can take as long as you need,” he says, “Donnelly—”

Stefan cuts himself off when he notices Cole is asleep— funnily enough, with his arm thrown across his forehead. Yeah, talking would be pointless if Cole couldn’t hear him, huh? He crosses the room— sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s starting to adore the way Cole looks when he’s asleep— completely peaceful, all the worry gone from his face. It’s... something he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning. _No. Stop right there._ He mentally curses himself for even considering that. That just flat-out isn't a possibility.

Still… it’s kind of a nice thought. One that leaves his heart fluttering and his head spinning. Despite himself, he lets out a soft laugh. God, this is ridiculous. He shakes his head— runs a hand through his hair again.

“You know,” Stefan says aloud, even though he’s fully aware Cole can’t hear him, “It’s incredible what you do to me. I feel like—” He laughs quietly. “A goddamn school girl with a crush. It’s crazy. _I’m_ crazy.” He takes a long, long moment and bites the inside of his cheek. What is he even doing? Easy— being an idiot. That’s nothing new. He decides to continue. “But I really do think I love you. I’m never gonna be able to say that to your face, so— might as well do it now. I love you. A lot. More than I should, really.”

Unsurprisingly, he gets no response. Probably for the best. Shaking his head again, he goes to stand up again— takes pause. Then, carefully, he moves Cole’s arm aside and smooths his hair back before pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well, Cole,” is all he has to say before he leaves the room again.

In his sleep, Cole smiles.

 

* * *

 

Cole’s eyes snap open.

He reaches up, puts a hand on his face— God, his cheeks are warm, and it’s _not_ due to his fever. Exhaling sharply, he screws his eyes shut tight and tries to push away the images from his mind, no matter how much he enjoys them. After all, it’s impossible— a nice, domestic life with Stefan is just not going to happen. There, that’s better. Some rationality. Perfect.

It’s not better. It’s not perfect. He feels _terrible_ , but he decides to just blame it on the illness. As if on cue, another wave of nausea crashes through him, and he thanks God that he’s still lying down. _Deep breaths, Cole. In, out, in, out._ He exhales the last one as a long sigh. “Stefan?” He calls out, finally, “I’m awake.”

“Just a second!” There’s footsteps and then— Stefan steps into the room, hair tousled and sleeves rolled up. He offers Cole a grin— tosses a newspaper in his lap. “I risked it and went out to get that for you. Y’know, so you don’t die of boredom before you die of illness.”

Cole stares for a long moment, clearing his throat as he grabs the newspaper, shaking it open and scanning the front stories. “Thank you,” he says finally, fixated so hard on the newspaper that it looks like he’s trying to burn a hole through it. He adds dryly, “I’m surprised I haven’t already.”

Stefan lets out a laugh and leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Well, you _were_ asleep for quite a while,” he says, “It’s almost noon now. I was starting to wonder if you were gonna be passed out all day.” A pause and a grin. “Guess you _are_ capable of resting. I’m shocked, really.”

Cole scoffs good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. “I’m more human than you think, Stefan,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something else, then stops, eyebrows furrowing. “Still jarring to see us in the paper. _Hero cops put away Henry killer_.”

“They’re still talking about that?” Stefan asks, eyebrows raised. “Jeez. You’d think we’d done something truly incredible.”

“We did,” Cole says, looking up at him. “We got a dangerous man off of the streets.” He purses his lips, frowning slightly. “Well— according to the general public, we did. I’m still not convinced.”

“So you’ve told me,” Stefan says. He pushes off of the wall— crosses over to the bed and sits down on the edge. “No thinking about that today, though. Donnelly’s cleared you to take as much time as you need to recover and stressing yourself out won’t help.”

“Oh no, I’m already stressed,” Cole deadpans, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head. “Joking aside, I suppose that’s for the best.” He takes a moment to read a headline, flipping to the page with the full story. He just sighs, setting aside the newspaper and looking up at Stefan. “Would rather not have a heart attack before I’m thirty.”

Stefan raises an eyebrow. “I’d rather you didn’t either,” he remarks, and absentmindedly, he reaches out to brush Cole’s hair out of his face. “Kind of like having you around.” He takes pause— pulls his hand back abruptly. He’s really gotta stop doing that.

Cole hums, his eyes darting to Stefan’s hand before coming back to his face. “It works out that I like being around you, then,” he says, something oddly… _soft_ about how he says it. His walls are down, that’s for sure.

Stefan just stares at him for what feels like an _incredibly_ long moment. Then, rather suddenly, he changes the subject. “Are you still nauseous? I thought I would try cooking something.” He lets out a laugh. “I called my mom to get a recipe and almost couldn’t get her off the phone. She must’ve spent over twenty minutes interrogating me because I _apparently_ insinuated I have a ‘somebody.’”

Cole opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it, clearing his throat. He mentally curses himself for desperately wanting that to be the truth— up go the walls again. “Ah.” He moves to sit up, anticipating a wave of nausea that never comes. Good, he’s starving. “It comes and goes. Right now it’s gone, so— the best time to eat might just be now.”

“That’s great,” Stefan says, moving to stand up, “It won’t take long. I’ve already got everything I need. Just— stay put. Relax.” He heads for the door, but stops and glances at Cole over his shoulder. He looks like he wants to say something. It never comes— instead, he just steps out of the room without another word.

Cole exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His mind won’t— _can’t_ leave behind that dream. He _wants_ to live that nice, quiet life with Stefan, the same he had with Marie, before— well. Before _everything._ He wants children, even, but that feels more impossible than marriage. That ache’s coming back, but it’s not in his head this time— it’s in his chest. Heartbreak.

_God’s sake, I’m a mess._

 

* * *

 

Stefan’s mind is racing.

All he can think about is the phone call he’d had with his mother. Things had been fine— they’d talked about the Henry case for a minute, she’d brought up that his sister was pregnant again, and then… _then_ he’d made the mistake of mentioning that he needed her soup recipe for somebody he was taking care of. _That_ had sent her into flat-out interrogation mode. _Who is it, Stefan_? _Why haven’t I met her?_ _Can I expect some good news soon?_ He runs a hand down his face. God. In a better world, maybe he _would_ have some good news to tell her.

He can’t help but frown. Yeah, _right_. Get that thought out of your mind. He tries to focus on chopping carrots, but his mind keeps wandering back to Cole. God, what he wouldn’t give for a life with him. Biting the inside of his cheek, he takes pause and squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment. That’s unrealistic. Doesn’t stop him from considering it— or wanting it. _Needing_ it. Desperately.

“What are you making?” All of a sudden, Cole’s behind him.

Stefan jumps— accidentally cuts his finger. Swearing under his breath, he sets the knife aside and holds up his hand to examine it. Nothing too serious— just a little bit of blood. He turns to look at Cole. “Jesus,” he says, “You scared me half to death. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on people like that?”

Cole blinks, glancing down at the fresh cut on Stefan’s finger. His eyebrows furrow. “Sorry. I— uh, I don’t mean to do it.” He takes a step back, leaning against the countertop opposite to Stefan. “I had a reputation amongst the Marines for being able to sneak up on anyone.”

Stefan moves to open a drawer and rifle through it. “Somehow I’m not surprised,” he says, and he frowns for a split second. He swears he saw some bandages in here the other day. “What are you even doing up? Thought I told you to stay put.” He glances at Cole over his shoulder before dropping his gaze back down to the drawer.

“I got restless,” Cole says, waving a hand. “Thought I could watch you cook.” He glances down at the counter he’s leaning on, and— slides back a bit so he’s sitting on it. Better. “Is that suddenly against the law?” His tone is dry.

Stefan rolls his eyes, but a smile crosses his face regardless. He finally finds a bandage and is quick to plaster it over his finger. “No, I guess it isn’t,” he says, and he turns the sink on so he can run the knife under water. He’s probably done using it for now. “I’m almost finished, though. My mom’s recipes are always complicated, but I’ve learned how to simplify them without risking the taste.” He turns the faucet off— sets the knife aside again before moving to lean against the counter and cross his arms. “I helped her out in the kitchen a lot growing up.”

Cole hums. “That’s—” _cute_. He can’t help but smile. “That’s… a good thing to do.” Clunky and horrible, but it’ll have to do. “Both of my parents cooked, my father moreso than my mother. I’d always be helping my mother brainstorm a new verse of poetry rather than cooking, though.” He pauses, giving a slight shrug. “I suppose you could say that I’m a romantic like her.”

“Romantic? _You_?” Stefan says, grin on his face. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Cole scoffs in mock-offense, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Stefan says, and despite himself, his eyes flick down to Cole’s lips. He forces his gaze back up to his eyes. “Maybe you should prove it to me.”

Cole knows exactly where Stefan’s eyes went, but he pushes it out of his head and focuses on remembering _something_ substantial. He doesn’t realize he’s staring up at the ceiling until he finally recalls one of his favorite verses, snapping his fingers. “I’ve got it,” he says, and he clears his throat.

 _Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night;_  
_Give me my Romeo; and, when I shall die,_  
_Take him and cut him out in little stars,_  
_And he will make the face of heaven so fine_ _  
That all the world will be in love with night…_

Stefan stares at him, completely slack jawed. Yeah, that knocked the air out of his lungs. Cole quirks a brow, tilting his head to the side. “Was that too much?”

“I—” Stefan clears his throat. Cole doesn’t need to know just how much he’d enjoyed that. Not at all. “No, it was perfect. I guess you _can_ be romantic.”

Cole almost seems relieved, his eyebrows raising and a sigh escaping his lips. He quickly returns to his usual composed self, however. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says, shifting slightly. “You know, I think you’d enjoy the works of Shakespeare. I know a few sonnets that might stick out to you in particular.”

Stefan lets out a chuckle. “Yeah, if you haven’t guessed, I’m not much of a literature person,” he says, and he gestures towards himself, “I mean, clearly. Don’t look the type do I?”

“You don’t have to _look_ like something to _be_ something, Stefan,” Cole says, as if it’s obvious. “If I went around looking like what _I_ am—” He stops right there, his voice dying in his throat. _Good job officially outing yourself to your partner—_ coworker _, Cole._ “Nevermind.”

For a brief moment, Stefan keeps his gaze on him, eyes wide. Then, he averts it and runs a hand through his hair. _That doesn’t mean anything. Don’t get your hopes up_. “Uh— I think the soup should almost be ready,” he says, and he turns to check just to distract himself. Yeah, it’s as good as it’s gonna get. He glances back at Cole— snaps his gaze forward. His thoughts had suddenly swerved into something completely inappropriate. God, his face is warm.

Cole inhales sharply, sliding off of the counter back onto his feet. “Right,” he says, running a hand through his hair. Suddenly, he feels nauseous again. “Do you need help setting the table, something or other?”

“No, I’ve got it,” Stefan says, moving to open a cabinet and pull down a couple of bowls. “You’re sick. Don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“I was a marine, Stefan,” Cole deadpans, breathing out a low chuckle and raising his arms defensively. “But fine. I suppose that holds at least some merit.” He lets his arms drop back to his sides, glancing over his shoulder towards the doorway into the dining room. “I’ll just— go sit down.”

When Stefan turns around, he’s gone. He inhales sharply— runs his hand through his hair again. Jesus, his thoughts are starting to get out of control. Working with Cole is only gonna get a lot more difficult if the only thing he can think about is kissing him every time he’s in the same room.

 _Just forget it, Stefan_.


	5. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan makes a terrible mistake. Cole breaks under pressure. Roy gets what he deserves.

It's been two weeks since the Moller case, two whole cases, even, and the tension between the two young detectives has hit a fever pitch. Every time they're in the same room, their eyes can't help but roam the other’s form, hands twitching with what they'd never be able to do. It's unbelievable how stifling and suffocating it feels to be around them; they're supposed to work together, for Christ’s sake, not ogle each other all day and imagine how it'd feel to have or _be_ had by the other.

It's a miracle they even survived two more cases with such high tension. The Maldonado investigation was drawn to a close just last week, and now the Theraldsen case is all wrapped up, earning them both a reputation for being the _hero cops L.A. needs_ — according to all the headlines, that is.

But now isn’t a time to bask in glory or crack under pressure; it’s a time for celebration.

Cole holds open the door for Stefan, looking in through the doorway and feeling strangely comforted by how many people— people like _him_ — are swarming their favorite bar. He finds himself smiling, turning back to Stefan with a dip of his head. “After you.”

Stefan rolls his eyes— cracks a smile and steps inside. “What a charmer,” he says, almost teasingly, “Really, maybe you’re more romantic than I thought.” He’s already feeling ridiculously bold even without the aid of alcohol. That, in itself, is probably a disaster in the making— it’s just a waiting game to see how exactly it would culminate in one.

Cole lets out a low chuckle, closing the door behind him. “There’s many things you don’t know about me,” he remarks, holding out his arm for Stefan. “For example—” He stops, eyebrows furrowing in thought. Then, he breathes out through his nose in amusement. “My parents put me through copious piano lessons as a child and young teenager. I still remember how to play, all these years later.”

Stefan starts to take him by the arm— instead, he decides to intertwine their fingers together. God, he loves how much of a perfect fit they are. He shakes that thought away. “You’ll have to play for me sometime then,” he says, and then, in a moment of true bravery, he leans in close to continue, “Sweep me off my feet and all that.”

Cole’s gaze slides down to their hands, and he gives a light squeeze. His eyes snap back to Stefan’s face a moment later. “When we find an abandoned piano in the wild, then you’ll be sorry,” he says dryly, but he doesn’t keep a straight face— he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his own joke. He starts pulling Stefan along. “Come on, the bar’s almost full.”

“Somebody’s impatient,” Stefan says, laughing as he lets Cole guide him over to the bar. “We have all night.”

“I distinctly remember blacking out every single time we’ve gone out together,” Cole deadpans, taking a seat and waving over the bartender. The bartender— same one every time— absolutely lights up once he sees the two detectives.

He quickly makes his way over, leaning in with his arms on the bar. There’s a wide, gleeful grin on his face. “Phelps, Bekowsky! Good to see you two. Wrapped up another case?”

Stefan offers a grin of his own. “Sure did,” he says, “I’d give most of the credit to Cole. He’s the brains behind the whole operation.” He gently nudges Cole in the side then. “Would be completely lost without him.”

Cole rolls his eyes, exhaling amusedly through his nose. “Now, hold on,” he says, putting a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “You’ve done things to help me, too, you know. Perhaps the best thing you’ve done is teach me how to be less of a stiff.”

The bartender watches them with his cheek in his hand, a wistful smile on his face. “I wish I had a relationship like you two,” he says, before slapping his hands on the bar and straightening up. “Alright! Drinks. I’m assuming the usual?”

“You’d be right,” Stefan says. He glances towards Cole. “Unless you’re looking for a change of pace.”

Cole shakes his head. “Would rather keep it the same. That is, unless _you_ want a change.”

The bartender snorts. “Is Cupid fluttering around in here or something?”

Stefan feels warmth rush to his cheeks. He pushes it down. “Whiskey’s fine,” he says, “For both of us.”

“Gotcha,” the bartender says, offering them little finger-guns. “Be right back.” He starts to turn, then stops, his eyes fixated on a blonde man at the end of the bar. The blonde man gives him a smarmy grin, and— he grimaces. “Word of advice for tonight? Avoid the shark.” He walks off after that.

Cole hums, leaning over a bit so he can see. His eyebrows furrow. A shark, indeed— the blonde man is rather aggressively chatting up another patron. “Good thing we’re over here.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows— leans over to look too. Briefly, his eyes lock with the other man. He’s quick to avert his gaze. “Probably,” he says, shifting in his seat so that he’s facing Cole. “Let’s focus on us. We’re on a winning streak here.” _Us._ He likes the sound of that. Biting the inside of his cheek, he shakes his head. “Yet another case solved.”

Cole turns back to Stefan, offering him a rare, genuine smile. “Key word being _we._ You need to realize that you contribute, too,” he says, his hand going to rest on Stefan’s shoulder again. “It’s not all me. Even the press recognizes that.”

Stefan glances down at where Cole’s hand was resting, then back up at his face. “Really, though, you’re the one who figures everything out,” he says, “Mostly I’m just around to provide backup when things go south.”

Cole gives him a _look._ He opens his mouth to say something— shuts it, trying to resist doing something he shouldn’t. “You’re around to help the investigation, Stefan, and— you do a better job than everyone else.” He clears his throat, letting go of Stefan’s shoulder and resting his arm on the bar. “I just want you to know that I’m being honest.”

Stefan swallows hard. _God, I want to kiss you_. He can’t say that, so instead, he opts for, “Thanks, Cole. Means a lot.” It feels like someone’s _staring_ at him. Then— the same blonde man, the shark, slides in between them, sliding a drink towards Stefan.

“You ever had a Manhattan?” He asks, ignoring Cole glaring at him incredulously. “We might be in L.A., but— makes me feel like home.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. “Not a fan,” he says, shrugging his shoulders slightly. He looks him up and down. Blonde, freckles, eyes not as icy as Cole’s, but blue nonetheless. “You from New York?”

“Born and raised,” the man says, taking back the drink and throwing it all back himself. He sets the empty glass down, leaning in a little so he’s actively blocking Cole. “I came to L.A. as an advertiser. You?”

Cole clears his throat, about to say something— but the bartender comes back, setting a glass of whiskey in front of him and Stefan. “Here you go,” the bartender says, eyeing the man carefully. “You’ll get something when you actually pay for your own drinks, _Alan._ ”

Alan rolls his eyes. “You’re wasting your breath, Lottie. Haven’t spent a dime in the week I’ve been here.” He’s almost _proud_ of it, shooting the bartender, Lottie, a sleazy grin. “You want me to pay you another way?”

Lottie gives an over-exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Do me a favor, Allie, and whistle up a rope,” he says, offering Cole an apologetic glance and storming off to the other side of the bar.

“Tough sell,” Alan says, clicking his tongue.

Cole scoffs, cutting in now. “Excuse me,” he says, taking Alan by the shoulder and forcing him to sit back a little. “We were having a conversation.”

Alan’s gaze snaps to Cole, eyeing him up and down. He snorts. “Sure,” and he turns back to Stefan. “Anyways, what were we talking about?”

Stefan shoots Cole an apologetic look of his own— reaches for his drink and takes a sip. “Uh,” he says, “You were telling me you’re from New York. From your opening line, I’m assuming Manhattan.” A pause. “I grew up in the Bronx. Moved here when I was ten.”

Alan hums. “The Bronx, huh? Interesting.” He's leaning in that way again, intentionally blocking Cole off. Cole looks to give up behind him, breathing out a frustrated sigh and downing his whole glass of whiskey. “I've been here for a week. Working on a contract; the suits wanted me to experience the West coast for this one.”

Stefan offers him a smile— more out of politeness than anything else. “Not that I don’t ever get homesick, but I highly prefer the West to the East,” he says, “Sunshine. Warm weather.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Just your luck you got here the one week that it decides to rain, huh?”

Alan’s about to respond, before Cole stands up all of a sudden. “I have to make a call,” he says, his usual stiff demeanor making a terrible return. He gives Stefan a _look_ , his icy gaze a little colder than usual, then— he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

“What’s with him?” Alan asks, jabbing a thumb in Cole’s general direction with an eyebrow raised. “Seems too rigid to be at a place like this. Does he really swing this way?”

Stefan leans back to stare off into the direction Cole went, frown on his face. _Shit_. “He’s, uh— yeah, I guess,” he says, and he shifts slightly— downs his drink. “I don’t know. We’re co-workers.”

Alan raises his eyebrows, a flirtatious smile tugging at his lips. “Coworkers, huh? I can’t see a man like that working with a man like you.” He gives a small laugh. “At least it’s obvious who the handsome one is.” He pauses, letting out a low hum and resting his cheek in his hand, his elbow on the bar. “Must be nice, all that attention. All _this_ attention.”

 _Oh_. Stefan swallows hard and reaches up to run a hand through his hair. Just— _oh_. “I guess it has its perks,” he says, laughing, “Pretty women.” Despite himself, he gives Alan a once-over. Blonde, freckles, blue eyes. That’s all he can focus on. “Handsome men.”

Alan gives an award-winning smile, his eyes half-lidded. He knows where Stefan’s eyes went. “You just window-shopping, or are you looking to buy?”

Stefan bites the inside of his cheek— glances in the direction Cole went again. Exhaling, he snaps his gaze back towards Alan. _Blonde, freckles, blue eyes_. Just like— okay, God, what is he doing? Making a mistake, probably. “Maybe,” he says, “If you’re interested.”

“Very,” Alan replies, that sleazy grin never leaving his face. “Your place or mine? Essentially— homely or view?”

It’s then that Cole comes back, but he doesn’t say anything, waving Lottie over for another drink. Lottie gives him a worried glance, but slides him a full glass nonetheless, watching as he downs it all. They exchange a few inaudible words, and for a moment, Lottie looks like he’s going to _murder_ Alan. But Cole just shakes his head and Lottie sighs in frustration, walking off to attend to the other patrons.

Stefan sends him a look of concern before shifting his attention back to Alan. “Yours is fine,” he says, “Just— let me get my friend in a cab. Cole?”

Alan nods, waving them off nonchalantly. Cole puts a hand to his head, exhaling sharply and standing up. He grabs Stefan by the arm, pulling him through the crowd and outside, into the rain. He stops just outside of the door, turning to Stefan and staring up at him with furrowed brows. His words are eerily similar to Stefan’s own thoughts— “You’re making a mistake.”

Inhaling sharply, Stefan averts his gaze. He knows he’ll cave if he stares into Cole’s eyes for too long. _Blue, blue, blue_. “I’m an adult, Cole,” he says, “I can make my own decisions.”

Cole scoffs. “You don’t think I know that?” He stops, reaching up to rub at his temples. It’s starting to hit him. “Stefan, you were _explicitly warned_ not to— go— with him.” He’s struggling with his words.

“I’ll be fine,” Stefan says, and he waves down a cab that’s coming up the street. Despite the warning bells going off in his head, he risks looking at Cole. His heart skips a beat. God, he’s beautiful. Right here, right now, he’d much rather kiss him senseless than go home with somebody else, but— that isn't an option. It’s never going to _be_ an option. He averts his gaze— frowns. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”

Cole’s eyes dart from Stefan to the cab, looking slightly panicked. He puts a hand on Stefan’s shoulder, and the words come tumbling out, “I can't watch you do this.” Dead silence. The cab’s pulling up.

Stefan opens his mouth to say something— shuts it. He glances towards the bar— back to Cole. God, those _eyes_. Mentally cursing himself, he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll see you at work, Cole.”

Cole stares up at him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. Then, his face changes— his eyebrows furrow and a frown tugs at his lips. He lets go of Stefan, stepping backwards. “Have a good night, Bekowsky,” he says, pivoting around on his heel and stumbling a little before making his way to the cab. He gets in, and— he’s gone. Not even a glance back.

Stefan watches the cab go and— he curses aloud this time. Then, there’s a hand on his shoulder— it’s Alan. “You ready?” He asks, dropping his head to give Stefan a small kiss on his neck. It doesn’t feel right. His _grip_ doesn’t feel right. “I’m staying at a place within walking distance from here.”

He looks up at him, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

Alan presses Stefan into the bed, kissing him hungrily and passionately, but— it feels empty all the same. Is this really what he wants? Stefan is positive it isn’t. He kisses back nonetheless— anything to keep his mind off of… _No_ , don’t even say his name. Not right now. He pushes all his thoughts away— pulls Alan in even closer. Alan responds with a low hum, moving against Stefan— he’s impatient. His hands suddenly go for the buttons of Stefan’s shirt, and—

Stefan pushes him away. “Wait,” he says, and he inhales sharply, “I’m sorry. We can’t do this. _I_ can’t do this.” He bites the inside of his cheek. _You’re not_ _him_. _You’re just not him_.

Alan gives him an incredulous look. “We can’t?” He’s about to say something else, but— he stops, his expression softening slightly. “...No, no, sorry, I get it.” He moves off of Stefan then, eyeing him up and down. “You’ve got it hard for that stiff, huh?”

 _Christ_. There it is. “Is it that obvious?” Stefan asks, propping himself up on his elbows.  

“Is the sky blue?” Alan retorts, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. “I should’ve known. I, uh— sorry. I’m sorry if I ruined anything.”

Stefan stares up at the ceiling. “It’s fine,” he says, “I mean— it actually isn’t. He probably hates me and I don’t exactly blame him, but— that’s my fault. Not yours.” He lets out a frustrated sigh— flops backwards and buries his face in his hands. “I only did this because you look like him. Thought maybe it’d get it out of my system and it didn’t work. God, it just didn’t _work_.” His voice is muffled.

Alan lets out a small “uh,” just reaching out and awkwardly patting Stefan on the shoulder. “It’s probably fine,” he says, although he doesn’t sound all that convinced. “Just— make sure he knows you still care, somehow.” He clears his throat. “I don’t actually _know._ Never been in a relationship.”

Stefan drops his hands from his face and hums. “Fuck if I know either,” he says, and he exhales another frustrated sigh. “I love him and it _hurts_ because he just— he’s so wonderful and perfect and— God, one minute, he’s pushing me away and the next, he’s pulling me back in.”

Alan goes quiet for a long moment, chewing his lip. “Does he have any emotional baggage? Like— do you know if he fought in the war, for example?”

“He was a marine,” Stefan says, staring up at the ceiling again, “and he’s always bringing up somebody else. Hank. Guess that’d be who I’d be losing to if he wasn't, uh—” He waves a hand around. “Y’know.”

“Ah,” Alan hums, brushing some hair out of his face. “He ever, uh— talk to you about him?”

Stefan squeezes his eyes shut. “Here and there,” he says, “We, uh— went home together from the bar one night. Things got a little out of hand and he— he implied that they’d done things.” _Ugh, that night_. Here he goes again, unable to get the image of kissing Cole out of his head. He just wants _one_ minute of peace. Is that too much to ask? “I don’t know. I— I _get_ why he keeps pushing me away, I do. It’s just— painful, I guess. Knowing I’m not really an option.”

Alan exhales sharply. “Well, I—” He stops, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just a gay ad man from New York. I don’t know anything about real relationships.”

“So you said,” Stefan remarks. He runs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry for treating you like some kind of therapist. I guess I’ve just been bottling this up for too long. It’s been _months_ at this point and it’s probably clear that I’m starting to lose it.” He gestures vaguely and he continues, tone dripping with sarcasm, “I mean, if you couldn’t tell by the fact I left the bar with you just because you _kind_ of look like the man I’m in love with, that is. Jesus _Christ_ , I’m a fucking mess.”

There’s another long bout of silence, and Alan shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, uh— I don’t know if I want to hear any more of this,” he says, carefully. “Sorry, again. Just— it’s a lot from a stranger. I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s fine,” Stefan says, and he moves to stand up, “You’re fine. I’m just— going to go.”

“Yeah, uh— probably for the best.” Alan watches Stefan start to leave, racking his brain for what he forgot, then— “Wait. What _is_ your name?”

Stefan pauses, one hand on the doorknob. Despite himself, he lets out a laugh. Maybe he really is losing it. “Bekowsky. Stefan Bekowsky.”

“Uh— Alan Post,” Alan says, raising a hand in a wave. “Yeah. Hi. I would give you my card, but— yeah.” He coughs awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Stefan says, and he shuffles his feet, “Nice meeting you, I guess. Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles.” With that said, he opens the door and leaves. He barely recognizes the fact that he’s made his way into the elevator until it starts going down. Running his hands through his hair, he rests them on top of his head and lets out a groan. What had he been _thinking_? The answer to that is obvious— he hadn’t been. Like always.

And again, all he can think about is Cole. It hadn’t slipped past him that he’d called him _Bekowsky_. That was a very clear sign that he had undoubtedly fucked up. He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this one— if it even _is_ fixable. A voice in the back of his mind is saying it isn’t. There’s a distinct stinging in his eyes now. He isn't going to cry over this. He _can’t_ cry over this.

He breathes out a shaky sigh— squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to hold it all back. Then, he hits his head against the wall of the elevator, sliding down into the floor.

Good job, Stefan.

Good fucking _job_.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Cole realizes when he comes to is that he’s face-down on the floor of his apartment.

God, the whole right side of his face is aching like he’s been punched. He lets out a small groan as he pushes himself to sit up, putting a hand to his right cheek and— he winces. Definitely bruising. What the hell _happened?_ He doesn’t remember a thing past—

Ah. Right. Stefan threw him in a cab and left to go have his way with another man that looked too much like him to be a coincidence. _Delightful._ He breathes out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his already-messy hair. There’s a horrible feeling within him, inside and out— whether it’s the hangover or something else, he’s unsure.

What he _is_ sure of, though, is that he’s made a terrible mistake. He called him _‘Bekowsky’_ because he was angry with him, and now? Now they’re probably back to square one. God, Cole hates square one. His barely-open eyes wander over to his door, seeing an envelope just below the mail slot. Eyebrows furrowed, he crawls over to grab it, leaning against the wall and—

He sees the words **_EVICTION NOTICE_ ** in large, bold letters, staring him right in the face. For a long, silent moment, it feels like the world has stopped turning. Denial hits first— probably the wrong person, or some sort of— of elaborate prank, or—

All of the other stages hit at once after that. Cole tears open the envelope with trembling hands— he _never_ shakes— and has to confront the fact that, yes, it’s real, and he has until next week to find a new place to stay. A new _home._

Cole lets the letter drop to the floor. He tilts his head back until it hits the wall, squeezing his stinging eyes shut in an attempt to contain himself. He’s trembling. He never shakes.

He’s crying. He never cries.

Warm tears roll down his face, and it takes all of his strength to keep himself from outright wailing. He _knew_ he just couldn’t wait for the next paycheck, but— he still tried, anyway. And now he’s here, weeping on the floor of an apartment that will soon be someone else’s. It’s too much. _It’s too much._

He just wants Stefan. No— that thought makes it worse. He opens his mouth to breathe in deeply, but instead he wheezes and shakes with a sudden sob, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes and shutting them even tighter. Patterns bloom across his eyelids from the pressure. He’s _breaking_ from the pressure.

Eventually, he calms down— steadies his breathing to shallow, slightly uneven breaths. Cole moves to stand up, stumbling for the phone and putting it to his ear, dialing a number he knows by heart.

Stefan’s number.

But nobody picks up. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest as he hangs up the phone, his knuckles white from gripping it so hard. He yanks it back up to his ear, deciding to dial the station instead— surely, if Stefan isn’t at home, he’s at the station. _Surely._

Cole reaches the operator, relaying his badge number and his name on instinct. “Can you—” He stops, breathing out shakily. “Can you put me through to anyone in Homicide?”

“Certainly, Detective Phelps,” the operator says, and she sounds so _happy,_ so unaffected. How he wishes that could be him. Cole’s grip on the phone only tightens as he waits for the call to be transferred.

Eventually, he’s put through and someone picks up— Rusty’s _very_ disinterested voice comes through on the other line. “This is Galloway.”

Cole inhales sharply. “Rusty,” he starts, and he knows he doesn’t sound alright. He reaches up to wipe at his damp cheeks, wincing as his fingers brush the steadily-forming bruise on his cheek. “Has— has Stefan come in today?”

Rusty hums. “Not yet,” he says, “Or maybe he has. I don’t know. I’m not getting up and checking.” He’s quiet for a long moment— then, he breathes out an irritated sigh. “Alright, tell me what’s wrong. I can hear you moping.”

Cole inhales and exhales a deep breath. “I need to talk to him,” he says, finally. He sniffs— _God damn it, hold it together._ “Just— I _need_ to talk to him.”

Rusty’s quiet again. “Jesus Christ,” he says, and he sighs again. “What did he do?”

Cole takes a moment, steadies himself. “It’s not so much as what _he_ did,” he says, finally, “I don’t— I don’t know. I can’t be angry at him for it. I understand completely. Just—” He runs a hand through his hair, swallowing hard. He doesn’t realize he’s rambling. “He’s not picking up at home. I thought he’d be there, I just—”

“Cole, _slow_ down,” Rusty says, “I can’t understand you— more so than usual. Take a minute to breathe, will ya?  Relax. I’m sure he’s just on his way to the station.”

Cole goes silent. He’s staring at his watch. “...You’re probably right,” he says, taking another deep breath. “Thank you, Rusty. If he gets there before me, just— tell him it’s okay.” He hangs up without waiting for a response, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples.

Time for work.

 

* * *

 

Stefan is possibly having the worst morning of his life.

Not only had he overslept, but for the first time in years, he actually has a goddamn _hangover._ Probably didn’t help that he’d gone home and drank _more_ , but— nonetheless, his head is pounding, his eyes are sore, and he’d already thrown up once. God, it hadn’t even been worth it. No amount of whiskey in the world could keep him from thinking about Cole. Cole, Cole, _Cole_. Cole with his frustratingly _blue_ eyes.

One step inside the station and he’s feeling sick again. He has to _work_ with him. Working with him equals being near him and talking to him and— he can’t do this. Is it too late to just turn around and walk back out?

He doesn’t get to decide before Roy fucking Earle himself comes striding up. There is no way in Hell Stefan is dealing with this asshole this morning. He doesn’t have the ability to put up with it and Cole isn’t around to stop him from throwing punches. “Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood,” he grumbles, “Go bother somebody else.”

Roy looks mock-offended. “Oh, I’m just _wounded_ you don’t want to talk to me,” he says, and he drops the expression for his usual smirk, “Really, I am.”

Stefan is trying _so_ hard to hold back the urge to just deck him right then and there. He’d never realized before just how much Cole acted as his impulse control. “Are you just here to act like an asshole or do you actually have something important to say?”

Shrugging slightly, Roy sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Everything I say is important, Bekowsky,” he remarks, “I was just curious _what_ exactly it was you did to make Cole sulk around the station like a kicked dog. I didn’t know it was possible, but he looks like more of a wreck than usual.” He takes one hand out to gesture towards his face. “Black eye. Bruised cheek. Would I be wrong to assume there’s trouble in paradise?”

For a long, long moment, Stefan just stares at him slack jawed. Something inside him has just... _snapped_. No, he couldn’t hold back the urge anymore. “You know what, Roy? _Fuck_ you.” That’s all he has to say before he throws a swing at Roy’s face.

It lands.

_Hard._

In an instant, everything comes to a standstill. The station grows eerily quiet— nobody’s moving, nobody’s talking, just staring at Stefan and Roy in shock and perhaps even awe. This Homicide detective— no, not just a Homicide detective. _Stefan Bekowsky_ just punched Roy Earle in the face. The secretary nearest to them breaks the silence by scurrying off, her face a bright red. All the noise and activity returns. Roy’s got a hand on his face— blood is dripping onto his fingers.

Letting out a low hiss, Roy shoots Stefan a glare. “What the hell was that for?”

Stefan shrugs— gives Roy a grin. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Told you I wasn't in the mood,” he says, “Maybe you’d have an easier time hearing if you got your head out of your ass.”

“Watch it, Bekowksy.” It’s hard to be intimidated when Roy’s voice is muffled from his bloody nose. He pulls his hand back— frowns deeply at the red staining his palm. “Y’know, I’m actually almost impressed. I didn’t think you had that in you.”

“I’m not looking to impress you,” Stefan says, and with that, he pushes past Roy. He needs to find Cole. They still have to work together, after all, and one little mistake isn’t going to change that— no matter how much it hurts to be around him right now.

He’s nauseous again.

 

* * *

 

Cole doesn’t know how long he’s been holed up in his office.

Time just— slipped away from him, he supposes. He’s staring out of his window, but he’s not _looking_. His eyes are defocused, his usually intense gaze glassy and despondent. By now, he’s forgotten about his issues with Stefan— all he can think about is that letter.

It’s almost funny; the moment happiness is within his grasp, it’s snatched away as if he doesn’t deserve it. Frowning, Cole takes a sip of bitter, black coffee. _I_ don’t _deserve it._ There’s a sharp tapping on the door, and then—

Stefan steps in. He looks like a right wreck— heavy circles under his eyes, face unusually pale. “I just punched Roy,” he says, “so I’m expecting Donnelly to call me into his office here in a bit.”

Cole turns towards him at that, meeting eyes for a moment— then, he averts his gaze. He can feel Stefan staring at the bruises on his face. “Whatever happened, I’m sure he deserved it,” he says. He clears his throat, rubbing at his puffy, slightly red eyes. “Apologies for— the state of me, right now. Received some news this morning. Still unsure of how to process it.”

There’s that concerned look. Stefan crosses the room to stand at his side. Carefully, and almost hesitantly, he reaches out to gently take Cole’s face in his hand. He’s more than a little shocked that his cheeks are damp and he abruptly pulls his hand back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Cole doesn’t look at him. “Yes,” he says, quietly, setting aside his mug. He forces himself to finally _really_ look at Stefan, and it’s then that he realizes how much of a mess he is. How much of a mess they _both_ are. Cole inhales sharply— hesitates. He looks guilty; he doesn’t want to dump this all on Stefan. “I’m being evicted by the end of next week.”

Stefan’s quiet for a minute. “Oh,” he says, “That’s—” He bites the inside of his cheek. What is he supposed to say? _Move in with me_? Yeah, like Cole would even consider that after last night. “Huh. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”

Cole breathes out a weak laugh. He sounds terrible. “No, not at all,” he says, and he looks away again. He’s staring through the window, and— he looks like he’s barely holding it together. “Marie’s living with her parents. My own live in San Francisco.” He swallows hard. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I—” Stefan bites the inside of his cheek again. God, might as well. “You could always move in with me. Just until you figure it out.”

Cole doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment. Then— he leans in, burying his face in Stefan’s shoulder and weakly pulling him into a hug. “Thank you, Stefan,” he mumbles, his voice a little muffled by the fabric of Stefan’s jacket. “I can’t express to you how much this means to me.”

Stefan’s heart is beating like a drum against his ribcage. _Please don’t notice_. Inhaling deeply, he moves to wrap his arms around Cole and hug him tightly. This feels… right. “What are friends for?” He asks, and he pulls back to press a kiss to his forehead. “Things will be fine.”

Cole inhales sharply. Deep down, he appreciates that small gesture more than Stefan will ever know. He doesn’t speak until a beat later, just nodding. “That’s— yes. You’re right.” He lets go after another moment of bliss. “Thank you.” A pause. “Do you need any help speaking to the captain?”

“I—” Stefan is promptly cut off by the door opening. Speak of the devil.

Donnelly stands in the doorway for a moment, glancing between the two detectives with an unreadable expression. “Phelps,” he greets, then he turns his full attention to Stefan. “Bekowsky. I have to have a word with you, lad.”


	6. Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marie reflects on her failed marriage. Cole can't control his wandering thoughts. Roy has a heart after all.

It’s been about nine months since the separation.

Marie breathes out through her nose, letting her head tilt back until it hits the edge of the bathtub. Eight months and twenty-four days. Eight, two, and four— her favorite numbers, bastardized just for today. But she supposes that, ultimately, it was for the best.

Cole had grown distant and cold; not just to her, but to _everyone._ His once-bright eyes turned dull and ringed with exhaustion, long nights of lying there staring up at nothing. Perhaps he _was_ seeing something— a ghost, as silly as that sounds. Marie lets out a frustrated sigh, slapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Thinking about him isn’t going to help. It never has.

She lets her hand drop back into the water, hidden by a foam of bubbles. In her other hand, she holds a glass of champagne— she takes a small sip, eyes narrowed as she stares at a nondescript painting on the wall. _I was never proud of that one,_ she muses, _but others were._ Marie sets the glass of champagne back on the edge of the tub, putting her head back again and squeezing her eyes shut.

She knows. Hell, she _always_ knew— when he visited, there was always something out of place. A ruffled collar, a hastily-buttoned shirt, an undone belt. He must have taken her as a fool, but— even a downright idiot would have noticed. After the war, his kisses turned artificial. Stiff, calculated, as if it were a battle for him to so much as _think_ of being intimate with her. At the time, it hurt. _She_ hurt. But now?

She can’t fault him.

Marie doesn’t know how it feels to live a lie all her life. All she’s ever been is a woman and an art student, not— that. God, she can’t even imagine. Shaking her head, she takes another sip of champagne. _He didn’t trust me._

A wince. That thought hurts more than she thought it would. They were married, but he didn’t trust her. They had _two daughters_ , but he still didn’t trust her. Marie frowns deeply, chewing on her bottom lip. Was it always fake? Was she just blind and oblivious, or was he truly an actor, willing to put on a facade for _years_ and marry the first girl he saw?

“Ugh, quit postulating,” Marie grumbles to herself, taking a long sip of champagne and— it’s empty.

For a long moment, she just stares at it. Then, she winds her arm back and throws it at the wall, the glass shattering and clinking to the floor. _Damn it. Damn this._ She breathes out an annoyed groan, running her hands through her wet hair and squinting up at the ceiling.

_Damn you, Cole._

 

* * *

 

Cole breathes out a small sigh, closing his book and setting it aside. “I just don’t understand it, Stefan. All of the evidence is pointing towards McCaffrey, yes, but—” He stops, pursing his lips. “It’s not him. He may be a pompous coward, but he doesn’t strike me as a murderer. Furthermore—”

“Are you going on about your theory again?” Stefan calls from the kitchen. There’s footsteps and— he’s leaning on the doorway, one hand on the frame. “We have to put _somebody_ away, Cole. Hate to say it.”

“It’s not _right_ ,” Cole starts, sitting up so he can see Stefan a little better. He’s about to say something else— but instead his eyes wander. He _adores_ seeing Stefan like this; sleeves rolled up, hair a little messier. Swallowing hard, he clears his throat. “These people are going to die for crimes they didn’t commit.”

Stefan hums and runs his other hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Cole,” he says, “I mean, you’re right, but—” He lets out a sigh. “It’s unfortunately our job to solve the case however we can.”

Cole purses his lips, breathing out a sigh of his own. “I suppose that’s true,” he says finally, picking the book back up and flipping to where he left off. “I just hope that there’s a thread _somewhere_ connecting us to our guy.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Stefan says, “ _You’ll_ figure it out. You always do.”

Cole glances up at him. “‘We’ is correct,” he says, his eyes dropping back to his book. He turns the page after a beat of silence. “Your input is incredibly valuable to me. There are things I _don’t_ know, believe it or not.”

Stefan laughs softly. “That _is_ hard to believe,” he says, and he pushes off of the doorframe, crossing over to Cole. He flops down beside him on the couch and casually, he rests his arm on the top of it. “Tell me, what _don’t_ you know?”

Cole hums, his eyebrows furrowing. “Well,” he starts, folding over the corner of his current page and setting his book aside, “I never learned how to swim, for one.”

That gets another laugh out of Stefan. “Seriously?” He asks, “I guess if we ever come across a case that involves one of us going into the water, I’ll have to do it. Anything else?”

Cole can't help but smile, putting a hand to his chin in thought. Then, he breathes out a low chuckle. “This is a good one— I have to recite all of the months in order, in my head, and _count_ them so I can give a… a proper estimation of _time_ , for example. I never made that association from month to number, if that makes sense.”

Stefan shifts slightly, grin on display. He taps his fingers on the couch absentmindedly— or maybe not so much. He’s honestly trying to resist the urge to move his arm around Cole. “That’s adorable,” he says, “Guess you’ve proved me wrong, golden boy.”

Cole hums, moving a bit closer. He's open to it, at least. “The better way to say that is with 'proven,’” he starts, smiling up at Stefan a bit smugly, “but that works just as well.”

“Okay, _that_ doesn’t help your case,” Stefan says, laughing. He leans in ever-so-carefully and— his fingers brush Cole’s shoulder. “Did they ever call you a know-it-all in school?”

“Absolutely,” Cole says, looking up at Stefan with raised eyebrows. “Are you kidding? It’s all I ever _heard_.” He lets out a low chuckle— he doesn’t seem to mind how _close_ they are, going so far as to shift just a bit closer. “Just because I preferred being well-read to losing brain cells via sports.”

Stefan’s grin grows in size. The fact that Cole’s reciprocating leaves a flicker of hope in him. He _knows_ better than to hope, but— God. “And now look at you,” he says, “Getting concussions on the job. You must be proud.”

Cole laughs again. “That’s true, now that I think about it,” he says, humming slightly. “It’s for a good cause, at least. Justice.” He breathes out a sigh, his smile falling. There’s a certain crease in his brow— his whole demeanor has flipped. “The American way; foul and twisted.”

Stefan just stares at him for what feels like forever. Then, he fully drops his hand to Cole’s shoulder— leans in to press a kiss to his forehead before straightening up. “Don’t think about it too hard,” he says, “Smoke’s coming out of your ears.”

Cole doesn’t seem to mind the small kiss, his eyes fluttering shut. He opens them a moment later, staring up at Stefan with a steady gaze. God, his eyes are so beautiful and _blue_. “You have a point,” he says, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I should stop worrying.”

Stefan chuckles softly. “The day you stop worrying is the day the world stops turning,” he says, “Like you just the way you are, but— you _should_ relax every once in a while. It’s what I keep telling you.” He gives Cole’s shoulder a slight squeeze and leans in close again. “‘Course, you’ve yet to listen to my advice, hm?”

Cole inhales sharply and— his mind begins to wander. He swallows hard. “I’m relaxing right _now_ ,” he says, unable to take his eyes off of Stefan’s lips. “Does that count?”

Stefan shifts slightly. Yeah, he knows exactly where Cole’s eyes are. That flicker of hope grows. He tries to squash it down. “Maybe,” he says, “Have you stopped thinking about the case?”

Wordlessly, Cole leans in, and— his lips brush across Stefan’s for the briefest moment. “Not completely,” he mumbles, reveling in the feeling of Stefan’s breath on his lips. “Enough for it to be at the back of my mind.”

Stefan breathes in a sharp breath— breathes out. Okay, he hadn’t been expecting _that_. All at once, he’s forgotten every word he knows. That seems to be Cole’s hobby— making him speechless. “What’s at the front of it?” He asks.

“You,” Cole says, and he closes the gap between their lips. Dear God, what is he _doing?_ He’s wanted this ever since Stefan slept with that ad man— this and _more_. So much more. He screws his eyes shut, pressing a little harder into it. Stefan seems a little surprised, but he’s quick to reciprocate, his own eyes sliding shut. Carefully, he shifts to push Cole down onto the couch. Cole lets out an appreciative noise, his legs moving to wrap around Stefan’s hips. His hands are pulling the taller man even _closer, closer, closer._ He just wants to be close to him. He just wants to be _his,_ nobody else’s. He just wants—

“Uh, Cole, you listening?”

Cole snaps out of it, eyes fluttering. That wasn’t _real_. He inhales sharply— moves away from Stefan. “I lost my focus,” he says, rubbing at his temples. “What were we talking about?”

Stefan quirks an eyebrow. “The case?” He says, “Are you alright? You never get distracted like that when a case is involved.”

“I’m—” Cole stops, pursing his lips. “Yes. I’m fine.” An obvious lie. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, searching for an excuse that’s at least a _little_ truthful. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” There, not exactly a lie.

Stefan hums— leans in slightly. “Really?” He asks, “I mean, you know you can stop and rest any hour of the day. I keep telling you that.”

Cole nods, steadying his heartbeat before continuing. Good God, he’s in over his head. “That’s true, yes,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “I suppose I just— wanted to get to the case. I get restless easily.”

“Gee,” Stefan says, tone sarcastic, “I hadn’t noticed.” He shakes his head— laughs lightly. “I’m starting to think I’m going to have to pick you up and _take_ you to bed.”

Part of Cole wants to say _‘I’d like that.’_ Another part of him wants to say _‘kiss me.’_ Yet another, much quieter part, wants to say _‘marry me.’_ He pushes it all down, swallowing hard. “I—” He stops, brushing a few strands of hair out of his face. “I wouldn’t mind that.” There, something nice and neutral and— _horribly_ obvious. He wants to kick himself.

Stefan, at least, doesn’t seem to care. He’s shifting again— way too close to Cole for comfort. “I was joking,” he says, “but hey, if you really want me to, I’m up for it.”

Cole feels warmth rush to his cheeks. Is he _blushing?_ Stop it. Shut up. He’s not talking, but shut up. “Yes— that— I like that,” he says, inhaling sharply and standing up quite suddenly. “I need a cold shower.”

Stefan looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed, but something of a smile tugging at his lips. “You do that then,” he says, “I’ll be here.” He watches Cole go— then, once he’s out of earshot, he lets out a laugh. _God_ , his flirting had _worked_. That was shocking— he’d expected a blunt response, in all honesty. Grin not leaving his face, he leans back against the couch and runs his hands back through his hair, tilting his head to stare up at the ceiling.

Maybe that means he has a chance. Maybe it doesn’t. Whatever the case— he had actually just made _Cole Phelps_ himself lose his composure and that, in itself, was an achievement. One that he’s damn proud of. He closes his eyes— listens to the sound of the water turning on, as his mind starts to wander...

…Shit. He might be the one who needs a cold shower.

 

* * *

 

Stefan’s absentmindedly fixing the sleeves of his shirt as he makes his way through the apartment.

Something had came up at the station and of course, despite the fact there’s a number of other detectives on the squad, they called _them_ first. He shakes his head. So much for a day off. Seems those are getting rarer and rarer to come by. He stops outside of the bathroom and is about to open his mouth to speak when he notices that the door is open a crack.

That, and Cole is _very_ much undressed.

He gawks for a second— then, he averts his gaze and pretends to have been going for his bedroom. “Station called,” he says, raising his voice so Cole can hear, “We need to go in and take care of some things.”

From the bathroom, Cole can be heard breathing out an annoyed sigh. “But of course,” he says, his tone drenched in sarcasm. There’s another moment before he speaks again. “I have clean clothes in my section of the closet. Could you get them for me?”

“Just a second,” Stefan says, and he heads into his bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for and— inhaling sharply, he goes back towards the bathroom. He raps his knuckles against the door. “Here. I’ll hand them to you.”

Much to Stefan’s— _God, is that disappointment?_ —only Cole’s hand pokes through the crack of the door, waiting patiently. “Thank you,” Cole says.

“Not a problem,” Stefan says, passing Cole’s clothes off to him. He stands there for a minute, almost awkwardly. “Uh— I’m going to grab my jacket and then I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

“Right,” Cole says, and the door is slowly pushed closed. Stefan stares at the door for a minute— then, hands on his head and mumbling about a million swears, he goes back to his bedroom. Once there, he drops his hands— opts to hit his head on the door of the closet a couple times instead. So many stupid thoughts. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Inhaling deeply, he steps back and moves to take his jacket out before shrugging it on.

 _Stupid_. Word of the day.

 

* * *

 

By the time they pull up to the station, the sun’s beginning to set. The roads are surprisingly quiet for a Friday, only a few cars lazily drifting past and disappearing around the corner. But on the other hand, there’s the station— it looks like a goddamn warzone. Cole inhales and exhales a deep breath, shifting a little in the passenger seat.

“What do they even _do_ when we’re gone?” Cole asks, leaning over Stefan a little so he can see through the driver side window.

“Cease to function,” Stefan says. Funnily enough— he’s currently ceasing to function, himself. “I guess we have to actually go in and see what the Hell it is they need.”

Cole just breathes out a low chuckle in response, shaking his head and moving to get out of the car. He shuts the passenger’s door and crosses over to Stefan’s side, holding open the driver’s door for him. “Here,” he says.

Stefan quirks an eyebrow and moves to get out. “How gentlemanly of you,” he remarks, “Wasn't aware this was a date instead of a trip to the station.”

Cole actually laughs at that— a short, quick one, but a laugh nonetheless. “Ah, yes,” he says dryly, and he shuts the door, “the most romantic location of all; a police station. Paris, eat your heart out.” He offers Stefan a small smile, unable to keep a deadpan expression to go with his tone.

Stefan’s heart is trying to leap out of his chest. _God_ , does he even know what he’s doing to him? He shakes his head and shoots a grin of his own towards Cole. “Our first date _would_ be at the station, wouldn’t it? I don’t know about you, but going over case notes definitely puts _me_ in the mood.” His tone is joking. “They’re probably going crazy without us. Let’s get going.”

Cole’s about to say something, but— “Hey, assholes!” There’s the ever-lovable Rusty, leaning out the window. “Hurry up! We don’t have all night!”

“Calm down,” Cole calls back, “we’re coming.” He gives Stefan a _look_ , before clearing his throat and gesturing towards the station. “Shall we?”

“Do we have a choice?” Stefan snarks. He breathes out a sigh— shakes his head again before heading for the door and holding it open for Cole, one eyebrow quirked. “After you.”

Cole raises his eyebrows, breathing out amusedly through his nose and moving past him. “I suppose it really _is_ a date,” he says, and it’s unclear whether or not he’s joking. He keeps walking, then— he stops and waits for Stefan.

Stefan is quick to catch up with him. Given the chance, he probably would’ve stood there for another half hour trying to decode what exactly he’d meant with that date line, but— time’s of the essence. “Hopefully, this won’t take too long,” he says, “I’m already exhausted.”

Cole hums, continuing on once Stefan has caught up. They’re upstairs and heading into the squad room when he speaks again. “It’s almost as if there’s a cursed aura around the whole station,” he deadpans. “Though—” He exhales through his nose again, a smile tugging at his lips. “That might just be Roy.”

That gets a hearty laugh out of Stefan. “Careful,” he says, “You might summon him and I think he’s still sore about me busting his face in.”

“No, you don’t have to just say his _name_ to summon him,” Cole says, taking on the most serious and analytical tone he can manage, “you must first write his name in blood, then you say it out loud three times, and after that you—”

“What are you idiots going on about now?” There’s Rusty again, looking every bit as impatient as he had a moment ago. He turns away with an irritated sigh. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t care. Took you both long e-fucking-nough to get up here. I’m up to my ears in Goddamn evidence and not a shred of it connects.”

Cole’s demeanor changes, his expression turning from jokingly serious to genuinely serious— a small adjustment, and Stefan is the only one who can clock it. “Right,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. “What have you—”

He’s unceremoniously cut off by somebody clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Cole,” Roy says, “Buddy. Mind if I steal you for a moment?”

Cole inhales and exhales a deep breath. “I’m not your buddy,” he says, tone flat.

“Tell somebody who cares,” Roy says, and he gives both Stefan and Rusty equally unimpressed looks, “Promise I’ll have him back in one piece, boys.”

Stefan opens his mouth to say something— shuts it. “Fine by me,” he says. It’s clear from his tone that it really _isn’t_ fine.

“Yeah, I couldn’t give less of a shit,” Rusty says. Briefly, he glances towards Stefan with an unreadable expression before snapping his attention back to Roy. “Just bring him back. I need his opinion on this case, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“Fantastic,” Roy says, and he claps a hand on Cole’s shoulder again. “Come on, walk with me.”

Cole gives him a look, eyebrows furrowed and eyes searching his face. “I didn’t—” He stops there, sighing in frustration and shaking his head. “Fine.” Without Roy, he starts walking off.

Roy’s quick to catch up with him. “Listen,” he says, once they’re out of earshot of Stefan and Rusty, “I know you think I’m just some asshole, but—” He pauses. “I legitimately want to know how you’re holding up.”

Cole stops dead in his tracks, inhaling sharply. He turns on his heel to face Roy, meeting his eyes momentarily— then, his own gaze flicks down to the bandage over his nose. “Roy—” he starts, glancing around. He swallows hard. “I’m doing fine. I appreciate your concern, but— it’s unneeded. I’m fine.”

Roy hums, looking him in the eye. “You sure?” He asks, “You seemed pretty torn up last week. I don’t know over what exactly, but—” Another pause. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and grumbles. “Yeah, I don’t know. Seeing you walk around like a kicked dog was concerning.”

Cole’s eyebrows furrow in thought, holding eye contact with Roy for a long, tense moment. He’s paying attention to his every move, as if he has to be on _guard_ around Roy. Roy doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Again, I appreciate it,” Cole says, finally. “Just— It’s all been taken care of. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

Roy says nothing for what feels like a very long moment. Then, he breathes out a sigh. “Fine,” he says, “If you say so.” His gaze darts around— almost as if he’s afraid somebody will sneak up on them. “It didn’t have anything to do with Bekowsky, though, did it? Guy was in a pretty bad mood last week too.” For emphasis, he gestures towards his face. Yeah, Stefan had done _quite_ the number on him. It’s borderline impressive. Maybe not even borderline.

“ _No,_ ” Cole says quickly— too quickly. He's mentally kicking himself. He inhales and exhales a deep breath, rubbing at his temples. “It was a—” He comes to a sudden stop, as if he's debating whether or not he should be saying this. “It was a housing issue. I have no idea what the problem between you and Stefan was.”

A look of relief briefly crosses Roy’s face. “Well,” he says, “I’m glad you figured it out, I guess.”  He clears his throat. Time to completely cover up the fact he can have _emotions_. “And thank your guard dog for the busted nose. I’ve been swatting skirt away all week.” He turns on his heel. “That southern broad from downstairs— now, _she’s_ something.”

Cole scoffs, his eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not interested in your escapades, Roy,” he says dryly, moving past him— their shoulders knock momentarily— and back towards the squad room.

Roy watches him leave. Then, he runs a hand down his face.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

The station’s own poster boys are on fire.

One case after another— done, done, done, done, and _done_. They’ve just wrapped up their fifth big case on the Homicide desk, and the pressure has given way to pride. The claps on the shoulder and commendations have grown stronger, louder, more genuine with every step forward. It’s a rush that they’ll never forget, a type of high only achievable by hallucinogens—

And God _damn,_ does it feel _good._

Cole holds open the station doors for Stefan, continuing on with what he was saying. “Anyways— _malum in se_ is used to define an act that is evil in and of itself,” he says, “and _malum prohibitum_ is used to define an act that is evil by virtue of it being against the law.” Once Stefan is through, he continues towards the car. “Before you ask, I used to read books on law as a child and young adult. That’s how I know these things.”

Stefan shoots him a grin. “I’m not surprised,” he says, “You seem the type.” He opens the passenger side door open for Cole with his eyebrows raised. “What _does_ surprise me sometimes is you didn’t go to law school. Why detective work?”

Cole hums, offering Stefan a thankful smile before getting in the car. “It didn’t feel right,” he says, allowing himself to _relax_ for once. Somehow, he’s grown even more comfortable in Stefan’s car. “My one true love, academically, was always classic literature. English or otherwise.” He gives a slight shrug, pausing. “As for detective work? It just felt like the next step, if that makes sense. I _do_ require a job with critical thinking.”

Stefan lets out an easygoing laugh, turning the engine over. “Lest you get _bored_ ,” he says, tone teasing, “Are we hitting the bar or are we going home?” The words _we_ and _home_ sounds good together. Ridiculously good.

“I fear that we’re going to have to forgo all of the festivities tonight,” Cole says, moving to take off his hat and set it on the dashboard. “I am— _far_ too tired.” He’s even loosening his tie— he must be serious.

“Sounds good to me,” Stefan says. He lets his eyes wander for a second before clearing his throat and turning his attention forward again. “You _look_ tired.”

Cole breathes out a short laugh. “Oh, do I?” His tone is sarcastic. He gestures to his face— his eyes are ringed with exhaustion, eyelids heavy. “How observant of you, Stefan.”

Stefan snorts and rolls his eyes. “Come on, you know you love me.”

“I can’t say that I disagree with that statement,” Cole says simply, breathing out amusedly through his nose. His gaze flicks towards Stefan, and he can’t help but smile. Just then, the sun begins to set— golden beams of sunlight shine through and create a halo around Cole, a beautiful image just for Stefan. _Only_ for Stefan— nobody else has _ever_ witnessed Cole in such a uniquely heavenly moment.

All the air is knocked out of Stefan’s lungs. _God, I love you so much_. He can’t say that out loud, so he settles for— “We did some good work today.”

“We did,” Cole hums, turning his attention forward. There’s a pleasant smile still on his face. “To home, then?”

“To home,” Stefan says, and he pulls away from the station.

 

* * *

 

It’s the middle of the night when Stefan wakes up with a jolt.

 _Just a dream_. He runs a hand down his face. Dammit. Could he not escape his thoughts even when he was asleep? Apparently not. Breathing out a sigh, he tosses his blankets aside and moves to stand up. He needs a glass of water. He’d rather have… something else. With a shake of his head, he pushes his hair out of his face and heads out into the hallway.

He stops just outside of the kitchen, one hand on the wall. His eyes fall on Cole— fast asleep on the couch and looking every bit as angelic as he did awake. God. How does he manage that? Stefan wants to know. Cole just looks so… _peaceful_ when he's asleep. No frowns or furrowed brows, no frantic eyes glancing around, searching for everything and nothing all at once. And above all, there's no pain. No past to weigh him down, no baggage or guilt.

Somehow, just by sleeping, Cole ascends to true perfection. Stefan doesn’t know how to feel about that. These days, he doesn’t know how to feel about Cole at all.

Biting his lip, he pushes away from the wall and crosses over to him. Then, gently, Stefan brushes his hair out of his face and leans over to press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you,” he mumbles under his breath, “So fucking much.”

Someday, he might be brave enough to say that while he’s awake.


	7. Dahlia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a head.

Cole enters the squad room with a slight spring in his step, immediately going for the coat rack by his and Stefan’s desk. “We’re going down to Technical Services,” he says, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his hat. “Carruthers and Pinker have something for us.”

Stefan looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “What do you think it is?” He asks, standing up and reaching for his own jacket and hat. Once he has them on, he turns to Cole. “Actually, judging by happy you are, I’m gonna guess it has something to do with your theory.”

“I don’t know _exactly_ what it is, but—” Cole pauses as he walks out of the room, slowing down so Stefan can walk with him. “I believe it may have something to do with that, yes. We’ve been doing these last five big cases together, right? Why would they call us down there if it wasn’t a substantial development?” He’s already going downstairs— his pace had increased without him realizing.

“Slow down, Cole,” Stefan says, laughing lightly regardless. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited over something.”

Cole glances over his shoulder to give Stefan a small, barely-noticeable smile. “I’m always excited when a theory of mine is proven to be correct,” he says, facing forward again and heading for Technical Services. “Well— _potentially_ proven to be correct.” He drops the smile as soon as they enter the room, his demeanor switching to stiff and serious upon seeing not only Ray and Mal, but also Donnelly. He clears his throat. “What have we got?”

Donnelly is the first to speak. “I want to extend my congratulations to you two for the past five cases, but—” He stops, a sudden frown etching his features. “We have five birds in hand and none in the bush, lads.” He inhales and exhales a deep sigh, gesturing towards Ray. “Pinker, tell them what you told me.”

Ray moves towards the table, unceremoniously tossing the evidence in his hands in front of Cole. “Doused in gasoline again,” he says, “Can’t lift a single print. Same as last time, though— more Shelley.”

Cole hums, picking up the excerpt of Shelley and scanning it, his eyes darting back and forth on the page. Then, he sees the letter— and the rather obscene message on it. He inhales sharply and glances over his shoulder. “Stefan, look at this.”

Stefan moves to stand at his side, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning over him to look. “Well, that’s charming,” he remarks, “Our guy knows how to make an impression. I’ll say that much.”

Cole lets out a low, short chuckle at that. Everybody other than Stefan just stares. “That’s for sure,” he says, going quiet as he reads through the excerpt a second time. He hums again, handing it off to Stefan. “What do you think?”

Stefan takes it, but doesn’t make any effort to move away from Cole. “Oh,” he says, “I recognize this one. It’s—” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek, as if changing his mind about what he was gonna say. “Yeah.” He passes it back to Cole. “What do you think it means?”

“That’s what I’ve been racking my brain about,” Ray cuts in. “It’s gotta be symbolic.”

Cole rests his hand on his jaw, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. Soon, he speaks again, “Do you think he could mean it literally?”

“It’s always a possibility,” Ray says, “But do you really think it could be that easy?”

Cole opens his mouth to respond— but he shuts it, re-reading the excerpt almost frantically now. A hand on his shoulder steadies him, and he doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Stefan. Breathing deeply, he speaks again. “I don’t know, but—” There’s a new crease in his brow. “If this is the Black Dahlia killer,” he starts slowly, tentatively, “then that means he also killed Theresa Taraldsen.”

Donnelly points at Cole. “That’s my fear, boy-o. We could have five innocent men on our conscience, if we don’t fix this.” There’s a long, tense moment where nobody moves or speaks, looking at each other in complete silence. Donnelly clears his throat. “This responsibility falls squarely on your shoulders, detectives. If this man isn’t found…”

Cole’s gaze snaps from the excerpt to Donnelly, exhaling sharply. “Then we’re out.”

The lack of response from Donnelly confirms it. Stefan gives Cole’s shoulder a gentle squeeze— a gesture of comfort. “We’ll find the guy,” he says, “Take him down. You can count on it.”

Ray exchanges a glance with Mal. “Well, you better hop to it then,” Ray says, “Clock’s ticking. Best bet is to—”

“Pershing Square,” Cole says suddenly, and all eyes are on him. He glances back towards Stefan— gives him a quick smile that fades as soon as he turns back to the others. “‘ _I hid myself_ _within a fountain in the public square’—_ it’s Pershing Square. It _is_ meant to be taken literally.”

Stefan drops his hand from his shoulder and just stares at him for a moment— his fingers twitch towards Cole’s. Then, he breathes out a laugh and says, “What are we waiting for then?”

“Nothing,” Cole replies, and for a second his hand brushes against Stefan’s. He glances down for the briefest moment, inhaling sharply and turning for the exit. “Come on. We can’t waste any time.”

“Be careful, Phelps,” Ray says, “This is his game you’re playing now.”

Cole stops just at the doorway, turning back to face the others. “I plan to win, Pinker,” he says, continuing on his way with Stefan close behind.

Once both detectives are gone and definitely out-of-earshot, Ray turns to the other two with raised eyebrows. “Okay, I’m not the only one who saw that, right?”

Mal clears his throat. “I, too, saw it,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. He rests his hand on his chin. “Interesting.”

“That’s _one_ way to put it,” Ray says.

Donnelly just exhales a sigh through his nose, shaking his head. “I hope they know what they’re doing.”

 

* * *

 

Cole picks up the pace a bit, heading straight for the fountain in Pershing Square. He glances back at Stefan for a moment, slowing down so he can catch up. He inhales and exhales a deep breath as they come to a halt in front of the fountain. “Here it is,” he says, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

Stefan glances up with a hum. “So, what are we even looking for?” He asks. A pause, as he bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe one of us should climb it. Might be something on the second tier where we can’t see.”

Cole lets out a low hum, then— he’s climbing up the fountain, stopping once something in the center catches his eye. He leans over to pick it up, and— “Good God. Elizabeth Short’s social security card,” he says, holding it up to show Stefan. “And another excerpt from _Prometheus Unbound._ ”

“Christ,” Stefan says. He stares up at Cole and— for a minute, forgets how to speak. Really, he shouldn’t be this surprised at this point, but the light catches Cole’s hair like a halo and leaves him breathless. Shaking his head, he continues, “What can you make of it?”

Cole opens his mouth to respond, then he just shuts it. “I’ll come down,” he says, beginning the process of descending back to the ground and— he slips just as he reaches the bottom, nearly falling over if not for Stefan catching him.

Time stands still for a moment— just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes. It’s only for a moment, though, as Stefan clears his throat and steadies Cole before letting go. “Careful,” he says, “You wouldn’t be much help to anybody with a head injury.”

Cole straightens up, swallowing hard and fixing his tie. “I suppose that is correct,” he says, handing Stefan the excerpt. “Here. What do you think of this?”

Stefan tries to ignore the fact that their fingers brush when he takes the sheet of paper. He scans the words, carefully, slowly. It takes him a minute to fully process it all. “Yeah,” he says, “I told you I recognize this back at the station. It’s in one of your books at home.” He hums and passes it back to Cole. “No clue what this one could be though.”

Cole breathes out a small laugh, his gaze fondly on Stefan’s face. “You actually read it?” He asks, and the appreciative smile on his face is awfully contagious. “Well, well, well. I’m impressed.” He finally takes back the paper, handing off Elizabeth Short’s social security card next and reading through the excerpt himself.

Stefan scoffs. “I was just curious what the big deal was,” he says, and he examines the card with furrowed brows. “This is actually her social security card. What a fucking clue.”

“It’s absolute confirmation that, yes, we’re dealing with— _him_.” Cole frowns slightly, shaking his head. “That means I’m right. I didn’t want to be.” He goes silent, re-reading over and over again.

Glancing up from the card at Cole, Stefan bites his lip. This really isn’t an appropriate time to be admiring him, but— he loves when he gets that focused look on his face. He inhales deeply and forces those thoughts to the back of his mind. “So, any ideas?”

Cole suddenly snaps his fingers. “Hall of Records,” he says, turning to Stefan with an all new look in his eyes. “The chandelier.”

Stefan just blinks at him. “The what?”

“The _chandelier,_ Stefan,” Cole repeats, and— he grabs Stefan’s hand all of a sudden, pulling him towards the car at a faster pace than usual. “Something about it, anyways.”

Stefan has his eyes trained on their interlocked hands, heat rising to his cheeks. “I trust your judgement,” he says, and he swallows hard, “But uh, is it— really necessary for you to drag me around by the hand?”

“I—” Cole stops dead in his tracks by the car, blinking a few times. He looks down and— “Ah. Right.” He lets go of Stefan’s hand, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I may have gotten a little over-enthusiastic.”

“It’s fine,” Stefan says. God, he hopes Cole doesn’t notice that he’s honest-to-God blushing. “I can’t complain.”

By the way Cole scans his face, it seems that he’s noticed— the jig is up. However, he stays quiet, just nodding and moving to hold open the driver’s door for Stefan. “Good to know,” he says, moreso to himself than anyone else.

For a split second, Stefan just stares at him. Then, he shakes his head and moves to slide into the driver’s seat. “Just hurry up,” he says, as he turns the engine over, “Who knows what we’re going to find next?”

Cole crosses over to get in the passenger’s side, giving a low hum in thought. “I don’t know, but— he’s leading us somewhere.”

 

* * *

 

The moment that Cole walked up to the desk and asked “How do we get to the top of the chandelier?” was the moment that Stefan started to worry. Not that he wasn’t at least a _little_ worried before, but— now he sees exactly how far Cole’s willing to go. As it is, he’s trying to keep up with Cole’s rapid pace as they navigate the employee stairwell, twisting and turning until they reach a ladder.

Cole wastes no time in climbing up to the top, eyes trained ahead. He doesn’t look down once— odd, considering he’s so cautious all the time. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Stefan asks, every bit of concern written on his face.

“Even if it isn’t,” Cole starts, pausing momentarily to gain his footing on one of the platforms connecting to a wire, “I’m going out there, Stefan. We can’t let any clue go to waste.” He stops, his eyes briefly flicking to the floor way down below. Swallowing hard, he tries to ignore the fact that he can feel his face paling.

“You’re right, but—” Stefan cuts himself off and exhales sharply. “Just be careful. I kind of need you.”

Cole just nods wordlessly, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. _Don’t shake._ He comes up to the wire, forcing himself to look ahead. _Don’t look down._ A step. _Just breathe._ Another step. _You’re safe._ Another step. _You’re not going to fall._ Another step.

_Don’t think about it._

Another step, and another, and another, and— he’s there. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Cole leans down to examine the evidence. _Deidre Moller’s watch, and yet another excerpt from the poem._ He hums, eyebrows furrowed in thought, and moves to put them safely in his suit pocket.

When Cole stands up straight, something shifts. Above him a horrible metallic wail fills the air and just like that all of the wires around the base snap, one right after the other. He practically throws himself at the central wire, holding onto it like it’s life or death. When he brings his gaze back to Stefan, all the color has drained from his face and his icy eyes are wide open in pure terror. “Stefan—!” There’s another whining creak.

Stefan looks back at him with just as much panic. “Cole, you’re going to have to try and jump!” he yells, “Just— hold on, I’ll get where I can catch you!” That said, Stefan’s running back out to the main stairwell.

Cole watches him disappear from view, feeling himself breathe faster and more erratically. Then, there’s crashing— the glass pieces of the chandelier are shattering on the floor. His eyes snap back up to the main floor, and there’s Stefan. _If this is the last thing I see before I die—_ He doesn’t finish the thought, another wave of panic overtaking him as more pieces plummet towards the ground. “What do I do!?” He shouts, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Try and swing towards me!” Stefan yells back, “Get some momentum and then jump! I’m right here, I’ve got you, alright?”

Cole opens his mouth to respond, but he’s promptly cut off by another alarming shift from the wire up above. He inhales sharply, moving to swing the chandelier back and forth using his weight. Every time it goes back, he feels a pit in his stomach, and every time it goes forward, it feels like his heart is going to burst out of his ribcage. But soon, he works up enough momentum and—

He jumps.

The world feels like it’s going to come to a stop, but then— he’s crashing into Stefan’s arms, the two of them falling to the floor in a heap. The chandelier falls after that, completely shattering. Stefan inhales a sharp gasp. “You know,” he wheezes, one hand on Cole’s back, “You kind of have a habit of knocking the air out of my lungs.”

However, Cole doesn’t say anything in response. He’s trembling; his knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping Stefan’s jacket. Cole lifts his head to look down at Stefan, and his face is still ghostly pale. “There’s— there’s something—” He inhales and exhales a deep breath. “There’s something I never told you.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. His pulse is racing— well, more than it already had been. “What is it?”

“I’m deathly afraid of heights,” Cole says, still holding tightly onto Stefan.

For a moment, Stefan stares at him, slack jawed. Then, despite himself, he lets out a sputtering laugh. Carefully, gently, he wraps his arms around Cole in a comforting hug. “God,” he says, “Why didn’t you fucking say anything? I would’ve went out there for you.”

Cole breathes out a weak laugh himself, burying his face in Stefan’s shoulder. “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he says, letting out another laugh.

Stefan inhales deeply. God, his chest still hurts a little— for multiple reasons. “And what, you’re not as important?” He asks, and he hugs Cole even tighter. His next words are soft. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cole shifts so he’s hugging Stefan a little less awkwardly. “I won’t let that happen,” he says, voice quiet. Then— he breaks away, rolling off of Stefan and staring up at the ceiling. Without another word, he takes the pieces of evidence from his jacket and hands them off to Stefan with shaky hands.

“Was it worth it?” Stefan asks, taking them and flipping the paper open. He squints, clearly focused on reading the words on the page. He lets out another laugh. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I actually know what this one is.”

Cole exhales sharply, a smile tugging at his lips when he turns towards Stefan. “What is it, then?”

Stefan passes it back off to Cole. “The L.A. public library,” he says, proud grin on his face. He finally moves to sit up and adjusts his jacket. “Hate to tell you this, but probably gonna involve more climbing.”

With a slight groan, Cole lets the back of his head hit the floor. “ _Fuck._ ”

 

* * *

 

There was indeed more climbing at the library, but with Stefan by his side, Cole had nothing to fear. Once they reached the top, the evidence was such: Antonia Maldonado’s medallion, and yet another stanza from _Prometheus Unbound._ Together they determined that it meant to lead them to the Westlake Tar Pits— and right they were.

Once they reached the tar pits, they got to work with a rowboat and set out for the small isle in the middle. There they found Theresa Taraldsen’s missing shoe and, of course, another snippet of the poem. With tension growing, they deciphered that the spheres mentioned in the excerpt referred to the armillary sphere in the center of the maze at the L.A. County Art Museum.

A fast drive and a long maze later, Cole emerges with a folded-up sheet of paper in one hand and a gaudy ring in the other. He stops and looks up, eyebrow furrowed. _When did it become so dark?_ Swallowing hard, he shakes his head and approaches Stefan. “Celine Henry’s ring,” he says with a grim tone, handing it off, “and…” He inhales and exhales deeply, looking Stefan right in the eyes. “We’re going to the Intolerance set.”

“You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” Stefan says. The day’s starting to wear him down and it’s becoming more obvious by the hour. He runs a hand down his face. “I never thought we’d have to go back there. I’m _still_ trying to get over what happened last time.”

Cole nods. “Yes, I feel the same,” he says, his expression frozen in a frown and his eyebrows creasing even more. He puts a hand to his chin, beginning to pace. “How calculated _is_ this? How does he even know about the set in the first place? He’s trying to lead us there, yes, but— for what reason? Another clue? How long are we going to—”

“Cole,” Stefan cuts in, “Quiet. Please.” He rubs at his face again. His eyes are sore, his head aches, and right now, he wishes he could shut Cole up in another way. _Yeah, and in what world is that an option_? Thoroughly disgruntled now, he breathes out a sigh. “God. Sorry. My head hurts.”

Cole shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. I just— I had to say it out loud to organize my thoughts.” He drags a hand down his face, letting it rest on his jaw. Squeezing his eyes shut, he stops mid-pace, rubbing at his temples. “I don’t like it, but— we have to go there. Are you alright to drive?”

Stefan lets out a snort. “I may be exhausted, but I’m not an idiot,” he says, “There’s no way I’m letting you get behind the wheel. You’d probably kill us— or worse.” He breathes out a sigh and pulls his hat off to comb his hair back into place with his fingers. “I’ll be fine, Cole. Let’s just get it over with. Please.”

“Right,” Cole says, starting for the car with Stefan in tow. He doesn’t even realize they’ve made it until he’s holding open the driver’s door for Stefan, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought as he stares off at nothing.

Stefan mumbles a _thanks_ and slides into the seat, turning the engine over. “Are you getting in or not?”

Cole snaps out of it, exhaling sharply. “Yes, I— yes,” he says, moving to the passenger’s side and getting in. He immediately removes his hat, running his hands through his hair and resting the back of his head on the car seat. He’s about to say something when, suddenly, there’s a boom of thunder throughout the sky. “How prophetic,” he says dryly, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“I feel like we’re driving towards our doom,” Stefan snarks, and with that said, he starts pulling out of the museum parking lot.

 

* * *

 

By the time they get to the Intolerance set, it’s pouring down with cold, heavy rain. Not only that, the tension between them has only been growing more and more thick and unbearable in the time they’ve been driving. Speaking nothing of it, they get out of the car and set to work, flashlights on and senses alerted.

Stefan is the first to break the silence. “I’m gonna say our best bet is going to be the throne,” he remarks, and he adjusts his hat in an attempt to shield his face better from the rain. It’s futile. “Just going off of what the excerpt says.”

“Right,” Cole says, struggling to see through the sheets of precipitation coming down. He breathes out a frustrated sigh, heading for a set of stairs. For a moment, he stops— waits for Stefan. “Here, I think this might be a good way up.”

Stefan nods and moves to catch up with him. In the process, he nearly trips over a fallen board and— he swears. “God, I can’t fucking see anything in this mess,” he says, finally at Cole’s side. Even in the dark, it’s clear he’s wearing an annoyed expression.

“You and I both,” Cole mutters, making his way up the stairs and shining his flashlight around the set. The lack of clarity is starting to make him a little anxious, judging by the way his hand twitches for his gun. He exhales sharply, letting his hand return to his side. “Do you remember the layout at all?”

“Not really,” Stefan says. His own hand twitches— not for his gun, but for Cole’s hand. Subtly and without any words from Cole, he gets his wish. He inhales sharply and exhales a shaky laugh. “I think I blocked most of it out. We’ll just have to stumble through here blindly, I guess. Nothing like a few more close calls, huh?”

Cole breathes out a low chuckle at that. God, Stefan never fails to make him laugh in times of stress— which is why he regrets his next decision. “Stefan,” he starts, letting go of the other man’s hand with great hesitation, “perhaps it’s best if we split up, just in case this is the end of the trail. We don’t know what this guy is capable of.”

Stefan swallows hard. _I don’t want to leave you_. He can’t say that. Instead, he settles for, “Works for me. Try not to get into too much trouble, though.” He shuffles his feet for a minute and then— he’s splitting off.

The regret hits immediately. Cole shakes his head, rubbing at his temples and continuing on the best he can. He can hardly see _anything,_ the rain’s coming down so bad. He doesn’t even see it when he steps onto a rickety, rotted platform of wood planks— no, he only learns this when it begins to snap and move under him.

 _Oh no._ Panicked, Cole looks down and— that makes it worse. So much goddamn worse. He forces his gaze forward, breathing in deep and breaking into a sprint. The platform creaks and howls as it leans with him, going down once he leaps off of it and scrambles onto a thankfully stable surface.

He crawls over to the edge, peering down at the wreckage. Big mistake— the fear kicks back into gear and he suddenly jolts away. _No. No. Don’t look down._ Cole inhales shakily, standing up and brushing himself off. He turns around with his flashlight in hand, pursing his lips once it shines on the throne. There’s a folded piece of paper, and another small object.

Tentatively, Cole approaches. He sees the paper and, unsurprisingly, Evelyn Summers’s typewriter ring. With trembling hands, he unfolds the paper and reads the excerpt, his face growing even paler than it had been. _It can’t be. He wants us to go to—_

He’s taken out of his thoughts by a loud snap. Beneath him, the surface shifts to fall, and without another thought, he starts running. His heart pounds in his ears as he navigates the crumbling set, not even hearing himself shouting “No!” over and over again, as if he’s defying God. The paper in his hand grows increasingly more crinkled as he holds it with a death grip, the ring enclosed within the same fist.

There’s a terrible crashing noise from behind him, and he runs even faster, feeling his legs burn from the exertion. He shines his flashlight forward, and— Stefan’s there, just within reach enough to catch him. For a moment, Cole stumbles— he doesn’t realize there’s a decline. A board crashes through right beside him, and he swears that there’s a sudden searing pain in his shoulder. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though— he’s reaching the end of the line.

Again, he jumps.

“Cole—!” Stefan catches him with little problem, but even then, they still go tumbling back into a muddy puddle. Once again, the air is knocked out of Stefan’s lungs— at least, this time it’s just from Cole being on top of him and not from being outright tackled. “You’ve _really_ got to stop doing this. I don’t know how I can still breathe.”

Cole squeezes his eyes shut, rolling off of Stefan and running both his hands through his hair. His ears are ringing. Loudly. “Stefan—” He breathes, “Thank you. Thank— thank you, I— again, I almost—” He swallows hard. It’s too much.

Stefan exhales sharply. “Yeah,” he says, “You almost did. I’d like it if you’d stop doing that too.” He pushes up off the ground and holds out a hand to Cole. “Come on. Up out of the mud.”

Cole takes his hand gladly, letting Stefan help him up. He just nods wordlessly, still out of breath. His icy blue eyes are wide and frantic. “We have—” He’s trying to breathe. “We have to keep going. We’re so close. Stefan, we have to keep—”

“Stop,” Stefan says, and he lets go of Cole’s hand before stepping back a bit, “Relax for a minute. Do you want to go into cardiac arrest?”

Cole shakes his head, inhaling and exhaling deeply. He stands straight again, running a hand through his hair. “Stefan, we have to keep going,” he says, frenzied expression showing that he’s serious about this. “What if he gets away?”

Stefan wants to reach out and grab him by the shoulders, but he opts not to. He doesn’t know what else he might do if he does. “Cole,” he says, voice firm, “You almost died _twice_ today.”

Again, Cole starts shaking his head. “That— that doesn’t _matter_ , Stefan, what matters is—”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Stefan cuts him off. Unknowingly, he’s taken a small step forward. “Cole, you’re so fucking _important_. To the station. To the city.” A sharp intake of air. God, he feels like he’s _suffocating_. He’s chilled to the bone from the rain, his stress levels are at an all-time high, and here’s Cole standing in front of him, worried for everybody but himself. Cole, Cole, _Cole_. “To me.”

Cole just stares at him, opening his mouth to respond— then, his voice dies in his throat. “I’m not calling you a liar,” he says, his hand resting on his forehead, “but— I’m not—” He inhales sharply. God, he doesn’t want to show this side of himself to Stefan. The side that’s always nagging at the back of his mind, reminding him of everything he’s done, everything he is, and everything he’ll never be. “I’m not as important as you think. There’s countless like me out there, and I—”

Stefan furiously shakes his head. “No, Cole,” he says, “There’s only one you. Nobody else compares.” Here he goes. About to run his mouth like a complete idiot. “Nobody else is as smart and dedicated and _incredible_ as you. Don’t you see that?”

Cole doesn’t say anything for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’d rather it be me than you,” he says, his hand dropping to his side. “Stefan, you’re a vital part of the station, whether you see it or not. You’re more intelligent than you think you are,” he says, and he doesn’t realize he’s moved a little closer, “and— you bring light to dark situations. I just do my job.”

Stefan’s moved closer too— albeit, just as unknowingly as before. He inhales sharply. Exhales. His hand twitches— God, he wants to reach out and touch him. “I don’t even know how I’d live without you,” he says, “I honestly don’t think I’d be able to, Cole. You mean so much to me. So much more than you know.”

Cole’s eyes snap open, his eyebrows furrowing. “Stefan—” He stops, breathing out a disbelieving scoff. “I don’t see how I do.” There’s a solemn pause. “People genuinely enjoy having you around,” he says, a deep frown etched in his face. “You could theoretically live on without me, since— you actually _mean_ something to others.”

Stefan takes one more step forward. They’re face-to-face, feet-to-feet now. “God, Cole, can you stop beating yourself up for one fucking second?” He says, “Damn it, I _love_ you.” His head is spinning, his chest is aching, and he wants to kiss him so fucking _badly_ , but he refrains. “There. I said it. I love you and I have for months and I don’t think I’m ever gonna stop because Jesus _Christ_ , you’re— you’re _you!_ ”

For a long, unbearably tense moment, Cole just stares up at him, unmoving, the rain soaking into his bones. Then— his hands cup Stefan’s face, and he desperately smashes his lips against his. Stefan is almost too surprised to react. _Is this happening?_ Once he’s fully recognized that it is, in fact, happening, he wastes no time reciprocating. His hands go to Cole’s waist and unintentionally, he dips him back. Cole responds by wrapping his arms around Stefan’s neck, kissing him as if he were the last man on Earth. There’s an unmistakable hunger behind it— and, unmistakable _love._

With much hesitation, Stefan breaks away, breathing heavily. “Is—” He inhales deeply. God, of _course_ he’s speechless _now_. “Is that an ‘I love you too?’”

“ _God,_ yes,” Cole breathes out. One hand goes to rest on Stefan’s cheek, rubbing gently with his thumb. “I genuinely think that, yes, I—” He lets out a small laugh, brushing some of Stefan’s wet hair out of his face. “I love you.”

For the third time since that morning, all the air is knocked out of Stefan’s lungs. He can’t help himself from grinning widely, resting his forehead against Cole’s. “You have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting this,” he says, “I thought I was being ridiculous for even thinking about it.” He moves to wrap his arms around his waist and pull him as close as possible. ”God, I tried so hard to forget it too. I’m glad I didn’t.”

A genuine, warm smile tugs at Cole’s lips. He lets his eyes flutter shut, taking in all that he can of Stefan. “We both did,” he says, breathing out amusedly through his nose. “I never thought that you’d choose me, but— when I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong.” He pulls back, his gaze flicking back to Stefan’s lips. Humming slightly, he leans in for another kiss— softer, more tender. Hesitantly, he pulls away, his lips mere inches from Stefan’s. “We’ll continue this later, correct?”

Stefan is speechless again. He loves him, and Cole loves him back. It’s a miracle his heart hasn’t beat out of his chest. Shaking away his thoughts and finally finding his words, he says, “You can count on it.”

 

* * *

 

They crack the case that night.

It turns out that the Black Dahlia killer had been under their noses all along— Garrett Mason, a part-time barkeeper, part-time serial killer. He met his demise in the catacombs of the Christ, Crown of Thorns— _a fitting end_ , Cole had said, looking over his bullet-riddled body. Donnelly came personally to congratulate them, his expression solemn and deeply serious.

There was a catch. Their praise was to be unsung; familial ties kept the outcome of the case under lock and key. There would be no publicity, no fame, just acknowledgement from their superiors and whispers from their peers. But they didn’t need the publicity. They didn’t need anything but each other— the moment they got into that car to go home was the moment that they were truly free, speeding home to relieve the tension between them that had been building for many excruciating months.

And relieve it they did.

Roy’s not a fucking idiot. He knows what they’re doing. He knew it the moment the lights switched off in the window and his heart dropped into his stomach. God, what is he even doing here? Standing outside an apartment building that isn’t his in the pouring rain. It’s cold, numbing— everything he needs right now and at the same time, not.

He bites down on the unlit cigarette between his teeth. It wouldn’t light in this weather. Maybe that’s for the best, but the lack of nicotine is starting to drive him crazy. _Everything_ is starting to drive him crazy. Why Bekowsky? Why, of all the people, did Cole choose fucking _Bekowsky_? It leaves a distinct pain in his chest— one that makes him regret even having a heart in the first place.

He’s not a fucking idiot. He could say that until Hell froze over and it still wouldn’t be the truth.  At some unholy point, he’d actually went and got _feelings_ for Cole fucking Phelps like an _idiot_. God, maybe if he was smarter, he’d have realized it sooner. Maybe if he’d gotten his head out of his ass, he wouldn’t have lost Cole to somebody else.

 _Idiot_. There was nothing to lose in the first place. He hates you, remember? He hates you. He hates you. _He hates you_. Somehow, with each repetition of it, it just gets worse. He blames himself. This is his fault.

If only he’d met Cole first. If only he hadn’t been so much of an asshole. If only—

_If only they worked together._

There’s a brilliantly stupid idea brewing in his mind now. Something in the back of his head tells him he’ll regret this, but Hell— what’s life without a little regret? He tosses the unlit cigarette into a puddle and turns on his heel.

He’s done moping.

 

* * *

 

Come morning, sunlight shines in Cole’s eyes, but for the very first time it isn’t bothersome.

No, it’s the exact opposite; it’s _beautiful._ It wakes him up, yes, but it reminds him that he’s here, _right now,_ lying next to the man he loves. _God,_ he can’t help but smile, shifting just a bit so he can glance at Stefan over his shoulder.

Stefan stirs slightly in his sleep, pulling Cole closer in the process. He’s got his face buried in his hair. Cole gives a low hum, his hand sliding down to rest over Stefan’s on his waist. He gives a gentle squeeze, moving to pull Stefan’s arms around him a little more. He never knew that he could feel… _whole_ in someone’s arms. Unbroken. Not fixed, but— not as bad as he had been.

That smile refuses to leave his face. It’s rare that Cole actually feels happy; truly, completely _happy_ , but lying in this bed with Stefan reminds him that he _can._

Stefan’s mumbling something— then, he’s pressing a kiss to the back of Cole’s head. “How long have you been awake?” He asks. There’s sleep in his tone. It’s adorable.

“Not long,” Cole says, his hand still over Stefan’s. He gives a small hum, looking over his shoulder. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Stefan says, and he curls even closer to Cole. “Woke up on my own. Good morning, by the way.”

Cole chuckles softly. “Good morning,” he says, resting his head on the pillow and reveling in the warmth. He learned the hard way that Stefan is a living heater, but now it’s… pleasant. Frankly, it feels like home. “We don’t have to go in today. I know, insane, coming from me, but—” He pauses. “I would rather stay here— _home_ with you.”

Laughing lightly, Stefan presses another kiss to the back of Cole’s head. “God, I love you,” he says, “So much.” A pause, and he moves to press a soft kiss to his neck now, right over one of the bruises from last night. “And it feels _incredible_ to be able to say that out loud to your face.”

Cole’s voice dies in his throat the moment he feels Stefan’s lips over the hickey, breathing out a shaky laugh. “Does it, now?” He asks, and he twists around so he can face him. “I would have never guessed, seeing as you _definitely_ weren’t saying it every few moments last night.” He breathes out amusedly through his nose. “Definitely not.”

Stefan grins at him, pulling him closer by the waist and pressing a kiss to his forehead now. It feels good to be able to do that in a different context. “It’s the truth,” he says, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He lets out another laugh— it’s infectious. “I’m going to keep saying it to make up for lost time. I love you.”

Cole chuckles in response, moving so he can press a soft kiss to Stefan’s lips. That stops the steady stream of _I love you_. Stefan seems a little taken off guard for a second, but he reciprocates just as gently, one hand going up to Cole’s cheek. After another loving moment, Cole pulls away. “The best way to make up for lost time is with actions, not words,” he says, glancing downwards— _far_ downwards— for a second before bringing his eyes back up to Stefan’s face.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” That’s all Stefan has to say before he captures Cole’s lips in his again.


	8. Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan meets Marie and the Phelps girls. Roy never stops talking. Cole sees an angel.

At around seven-thirty, the telephone begins to ring.

Eyebrows raising, Stefan pulls his hands out of the sink and dries them on his pants before heading out into the hall. Putting the receiver to his ear, he says, “Hello, Stefan Bekowsky speaking.”

“Hey,” It’s Cole. He inhales and exhales a short sigh, taking a moment to speak again. “Marie wants to come over for dinner with our daughters. Just— calling to make sure you know.”

Stefan opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. _Marie_. _And their daughters_. He runs a hand back through his hair— momentarily winces when he realizes his hands are still a little soapy. Oops. “Yeah, no,” he says, “That’s fine. I’d love to meet them.”

“Alright, good,” Cole says, “Good, good, uh— I thought you’d be hesitant, seeing as it’s only been two weeks, but—” He stops. There’s a woman’s voice behind him, her tone raised in questioning. “Just a moment,” Cole says, voice lowered as he talks to her. He clears his throat. “I’ll be home in ten to fifteen minutes. Should probably start cooking, yeah?” There’s an obvious smile in his voice.

“Already ahead of you,” Stefan says, and he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, “I love you. Sick of hearing that yet?”

“Not at all,” Cole hums, “it’s possibly the most beautiful sound in the world. Did you know that?”

Stefan’s grin grows wider and he moves to lean against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “Maybe,” he says, “Hurry up and get home. Sooner we get this over with, sooner we can just be alone. I miss you.”  

“I miss you too,” Cole says. Fabric shifts on the other side of the line— he’s probably put the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He lowers his voice, his next words only for Stefan, “I need some alone time with you tonight.”

Stefan inhales sharply. “Save the flirting for after dinner or I won’t be able to make it until then,” he says, and he shifts his weight to his other foot. “See you shortly?”

“See you,” Cole says, and there’s a beat of silence. “I love you.” He hangs up.

For a moment, Stefan just stares at the receiver. Then, he sets it down and hits his head against the wall. _Marie_. Cole's ex-wife. Is he emotionally prepared for this? No, probably not. He doubts he ever could be. He runs his hand down his face and glances back towards the kitchen.

Might as well get things ready.

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, Cole comes home exactly on time. He pushes the door open, moving out of the way for Marie and their daughters to enter after him. “I’m home, Stefan,” he calls, turning around and locking back up.

Marie inhales deeply as she takes the time to look around, her hands occupied with holding her daughters’. She swallows hard upon recognizing some of Cole’s old things— pushes the images out of her head. “You’ve certainly adjusted to living here.”

Cole can hear the discomfort in her voice. Just as he’s about to reply, Stefan walks into the room. “You must be Marie,” Stefan says, and he crosses the room to greet her, holding out a hand, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” A pause and lighthearted grin. “Good things, I promise.”

Marie gives Stefan a forced smile, reaching out and shaking his hand. Quickly, she withdraws her hand to her side. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bekowsky,” she says, glancing down at the two young girls at her side. She steps back and pushes them forward just a bit, speaking softly. “Elizabeth, Juliet, say hello.”

One of them holds out her hand for a handshake. “I’m Elizabeth,” she says, “Momma and papa call me Lizzy, though. I guess you can too.”

The other girl, Juliet, clings to Marie’s leg. She stares up at Stefan with wide green eyes, her soft voice coming a moment later. “I’m Juliet,” she says, leaving it at that. Marie just squeezes her hand.

Stefan bends over to take Elizabeth’s hand, shaking it. “Nice to meet you, Lizzy,” he says, and he shoots a friendly grin in Juliet’s direction, “You too, Juliet.”

Juliet smiles back, albeit a bit forced. Cole clears his throat, avoiding Marie’s stare and looking at Stefan instead. “Well,” he says, glancing towards the dining room and then right back to the man he loves. “Is dinner ready?”

Stefan straightens back up. “Just about,” he says, “Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?”

Cole flashes him a thankful smile. “I wouldn’t mind it one bit,” he says, turning back to Marie and their daughters for a moment. At least Elizabeth looks happy to be here. He inhales sharply. “Make yourselves comfortable, okay? This is your apartment as much as it is ours.” He’s making his way into the kitchen now, Stefan close by.

Soon as they’re in the seclusion of the kitchen, Stefan breathes out a sigh. “Your mini-mes are adorable,” he says, and he leans one hand on the counter with his other hand on his hip, “But I can already tell Marie doesn’t like me.” He glances towards the doorway then back towards Cole. “Do you think a quick kiss would hurt? I missed you. A lot.”

Cole lets out a low hum, leaning in and stopping short of Stefan’s lips. A genuine, warm smile tugs at his lips. “God, I missed you too,” he breathes, closing the gap between them in a sweet kiss.

Stefan is quick to reciprocate, his free hand going up to Cole’s cheek. Regrettably, though, he pulls back. “As much as I’d like to kiss longer,” he says, and he rubs his thumb against Cole’s cheek before dropping his hand to his side, “Your ex-wife and children are in the other room and I’ve got a meal to serve.” A pause, as his eyes dip lower. Way lower. “Unfortunately.”

Cole gives a low chuckle, pressing a quick kiss to Stefan’s cheek. “Very unfortunately,” he says, taking a step back and looking around— _ah._ He purses his lips upon locking eyes with Marie at the table, quickly returning his gaze to Stefan. “We probably shouldn’t have done that in front of the doorway.”

Stefan glances over Cole’s shoulder and lets out a nervous laugh, offering Marie a wave. He drops his gaze to Cole again. “You think?” He hisses through his teeth, tone low enough only Cole can fully understand him. He clears his throat and moves to preoccupy himself by pulling a casserole dish out of the oven. “My mother got a little overzealous on the phone again, but I managed to get another recipe out of her.”

“Oh, what’d she say this time?” Cole can’t help but smile, eyes flicking down to what Stefan’s been cooking. It’s right then that he realizes how hungry he is— and remembers how good of a cook Stefan is. His smile grows just a little brighter.

“If I wanted a spring or summer wedding,” Stefan says, “and which one of my cousins I wanted to invite. She says inviting anybody from my father’s side is a bad idea.” A pause. “I don’t think she understands I’m not getting married anytime soon. Or that, uh—” He glances back towards the doorway and then drops his gaze to the oven again, almost ashamed. “You know.”

Cole’s cheerful expression drops, his hand going up to cup Stefan’s cheek. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looking up at him. “I know,” he says, finally, and their eyes meet. He offers a surprisingly gentle smile.

Stefan inhales deeply and returns the smile. “Right,” he says, “Uh— guess we should actually serve dinner?” He gestures towards the casserole.

Cole nods, hesitantly dropping his hand back to his side. He already misses the contact, but— he doesn’t let it show. “Yes, I suppose,” he says, lowering his voice. “Let’s just get done with it already so we can have the rest of the night to ourselves.”

 

* * *

 

About halfway into dinner, Juliet suddenly pipes up, her eyes on Stefan. “Are you gonna be my second dad?”

Marie drops her fork. Cole inhales sharply, putting his fist over his mouth and staring down at nothing. Stefan, on the other hand, chokes and quickly reaches for his glass of water. Once he’s positive he’s not going to die, though he still _might_ , he says, “Uh— Cole? Help?”

Cole's eyes snap to Stefan, giving him a helpless look and mouthing _'what?’_ incredulously. He then clears his throat, turning back to Juliet. “Well—” He stops, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. “We're just— living together, dear.” There. Not exactly a lie, not exactly all of—

“You and mom lived together,” Juliet points out, and Marie moves to clasp her hands together and lower her head. That, unfortunately, doesn't stop Juliet. “I'm right, right Lizzy?”

Elizabeth nods her head enthusiastically. “She’s right,” she says, and she directs her next words to Stefan, “That means you’re our new dad, right?”

Stefan opens his mouth to speak— shuts it and gives Cole another _look_. “I—” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t… know?”

Juliet blinks. “How do you not know?”

Marie presses her forehead against her clasped hands, exhaling deeply. “God in Heaven above, this is not happening right now,” she mutters.

Still, Juliet barrels on, her focus on Stefan. “Hasn't dad given you a shiny ring yet? That's what does it, right?”

Cole’s mouth goes flat, his eyebrows furrowed as he glances towards Stefan. He's giving him _the face._ Stefan clears his throat and starts to speak— only to get cut off by Elizabeth. “Papa smiles at you a lot,” she says, “I think he likes you. Don’t you like him, Papa?”

And suddenly, all eyes are on Cole. He flounders. “I— well— I— yes, I— like him very much,” he struggles, his voice dying in his throat upon seeing the narrowing of Marie’s eyes. He inhales and exhales a deep breath. “Y— Yes, Lizzy, I do like him.”

It’s then that Stefan snorts. He puts one hand over his face, trying to stifle laughter, but it doesn’t quite work. He’s losing it. “Thanks, Cole,” he says, and his shoulders shake with each laugh, “Glad to know.”

Cole has to fight back a smile, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Stefan. His face is just the slightest bit redder. Juliet gasps softly, elbowing Elizabeth in the shoulder. “Look,” she whispers all-too-loudly, “dad _does_ like him!”

Elizabeth giggles. “ _Awww,_ ” she coos, and she turns to Stefan again, “What about you? Do you like papa?”

Now it’s Stefan’s turn to flounder. He shoots another look in Cole’s direction— one that clearly says _‘help me_.’ “I—” He pauses to clears his throat. “I— I do. A lot. Uh—” God, he’s fumbling. “Yeah. A lot.”

Juliet's eyes go wide and serious. “Do you like him enough to _kiss him!?_ ”

“ _Juliet_ ,” Marie's tone is warning.

“Momma, it’s a good question!” Elizabeth exclaims, eyes widening, “Do you?”

Stefan snaps his gaze back to Cole, mouth hanging open. “Cole, _help,_ ” he hisses.

Another incredulous look. Cole's about to say something when Marie stands up, one hand to her forehead. “I'm going for a smoke,” she says, leveling Cole with a steely glare before leaving the room and then the apartment.

Juliet watches her go, eyebrows raised. “Is mom okay?” She turns back to everyone else.

“I—” Cole exhales sharply. “Yes, she's okay.” When he sees Juliet about to speak, he quickly tacks on a, “No more questions, please. Both of you. Let's just— enjoy our dinner.”

The rest of their meal is silent.

 

* * *

 

The moment the door to the apartment swings shut, Cole drags his hands down his face. “That was—” He stops, obviously in thought. “—like pulling teeth. Good God.”

Stefan exhales sharply, sitting down on the couch and running a hand back through his hair. “They’re certainly _your_ kids,” he says, “Our dining room felt more like an interrogation room.”

Cole gives a small scoff. “The last time I saw them, they were _not_ that… sharp-witted,” he says, moving to sit on the coffee table just across from Stefan. “They're growing up faster than I expected.” There's a certain crease in his brow— he doesn't quite know how to feel about that.

Stefan hums. “They’re adorable,” he says, “Really.” A pause, as a cheeky grin makes its way onto his face. His next words are teasing.“You _like_ me, huh? Making me feel like a giddy school girl over here, Cole.”

“Oh, I like you _so_ much,” Cole deadpans, feeling himself smile back without a single thought. He clears his throat. “I— do love you, genuinely. I know I tell you that every day, but it never feels like enough.”

Stefan shoots him a more sincere smile. “I think you hear it quite enough from my end,” he says, “so I think right now, I’d rather just prove it.” The implications behind his words are clear.

Cole's eyebrows shoot upwards. “Of course,” he says, and just this once he doesn't curse himself for sounding so eager. He moves to stand, taking Stefan's hands in his. “I _do_ have to take a shower, you know.”

“Am I invited?” Stefan asks, and there’s something flirty behind his grin now.

Cole gives a low chuckle. “Is that a question?”

“I suppose not,” Stefan says, eyes dipping down then back up, “After you, then.”

With a surprisingly teasing grin, Cole begins to pull him to the restroom.

 

* * *

 

It's a regular morning for Cole and Stefan; they wake up, they spend a few minutes in bed, they eat breakfast, and they go to work.

The ride to the station is filled with light conversation, chatting about what's on the radio, what the weather's like, what's for dinner… it's pleasantly domestic. They wanted this. They wanted this nice, mellow life— well, they're Homicide detectives, but at the very least their _home_ life is nice and mellow.

As far as they know, this is it. This is the apex of everything, the most beautiful time of their lives— nothing on Earth can burn them.

Enter Roy Earle.

Ruining things seems to be his specialty, and today is no different from yesterday or the day before that or three months ago. And as he strides up to them, smug grin in place—not that it ever leaves—it’s clear he’s looking to stir some up some trouble. “Cole,” he says, and he regards Stefan with his usual disdain, “Bekowsky. Nice morning, isn’t it?”

Cole is already disinterested. “Yes, it is,” he says, and he can't even attempt to hide it from his voice. “Is there something you need? The captain probably has a case waiting for us.”

“Yes, about that,” Roy says, clapping his hands together, “You’re moving on up, Cole. Just got the news a minute ago.”

Silence. “Well,” Cole starts slowly, glancing towards Stefan for the briefest moment. “We’re waiting with bated breath for our first Vice case, then.”

Roy lets out a laugh. “No, sorry, I think you misunderstood me,” he says, “ _You’re_ moving up. Bekowsky’s still on Homicide.”

Cole raises his eyebrows at Roy, his expression flat otherwise. “ _We’re_ moving up. Bekowsky's going to Vice. Good to know,” he deadpans, moving to push past Roy and— he's stopped.

Roy’s got one hand on his shoulder, effectively keeping him from going any further. “Cole,” he says, “Buddy. That may have worked on good ol’ Leary, but it won’t on Colymer.” A scoff. He apparently has no qualms about arguing in the middle of the station. “It’s not like you’re never going to see Bekowsky again.” There’s something accusatory to his tone— something only Cole catches.

Cole’s jaw tightens, his icy gaze piercing straight through Roy. “Excuse me?” He asks, keeping his words quiet. God, he's suddenly nervous. Why is he nervous?

“You work in the same building,” Roy says, tone dry. He rolls his eyes. “No need to be so touchy.”

Cole inhales sharply. “Right. Well, I absolutely hate to tell you this, but Stefan—” He stops, swallowing hard. “ _Bekowsky_ is either moving up with me, or we're staying at—”

“ _Or_ you’re getting fired,” Roy states, simply.

It’s then that Stefan decides to speak up. “Come on, Cole, it’s not worth it—”

But Cole doesn't stop. He gives a disbelieving scoff at Roy. “Ah, yes,” he says, voice monotone, “I cannot refuse a promotion in this sudden dictatorship, how could I have forgotten?”

Roy’s smug grin shifts into a scowl. “This is the chance of a lifetime, Cole,” he says, “I’d take it if I were you.”

“I am firm in my position, _Earle_ ,” Cole says, an unintentionally large amount of _venom_ in the way he says Roy's last name. “Stefan is a valuable partner. He contributes more than you know, whether it be—”

“Alright, Cole, you can go ahead and hop off his dick now,” Roy snarks. Heads are starting to turn by now, and Cole's hand twitches. “No, hold on, I’m sorry. Is it the other way around? I wouldn’t know these things.”

All of a sudden, Cole's fist connects with Roy’s face.

_Hard._

In an instant, everything comes to a standstill. The station grows eerily quiet— nobody’s moving, nobody’s talking, just staring at Cole and Roy in shock and perhaps even awe. This soon-to-be Vice detective— no, not just a Vice detective. _Cole Phelps_ just punched Roy Earle in the face.

Cole himself breaks the silence, leaning over Roy on the floor. “You need to learn to shut your _fucking_ mouth,” he says, his voice dangerously low. Never before has anyone heard his tone carry such power— not even Stefan.

Roy is just staring up at him with wide eyes, one hand over his face. Is that _surprise_ in his expression or something else? Blood trickles down his fingers and drips onto the floor. “Jesus _Christ_ , Cole!” He exclaims, and his voice is muffled, “I didn’t do anything to deserve you bashing my _face_ in!”

Cole just gives him a harsh, cold glare, shaking out his hand as if it were nothing. “When are we starting?” He asks, and there's something vaguely threatening to his tone.

“Talk to Colymer,” Roy says, voice still muffled, “I’m just the fucking messenger here, you know.”

Cole stares for a moment. “Oops,” he deadpans, walking around Roy and straight for his office.

Stefan gives Roy an almost pitying look before trailing after Cole without a word and leaving him alone on the floor.

And he just sits there. He sits there and stares at the blood on his hand— the blood from the punch _Cole_ had thrown.

_Why did you find that hot, you idiot?_

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Colmyer wasn’t swayed by any of Cole’s words. His answer was the same— Cole was to move up to Vice or he was to be fired. Not only that, Donnelly had to speak with him about _the incident,_ as everyone’s calling it. Predictably, none of that seemed to help Cole’s temper. It wasn’t until he got in his and Stefan’s car to leave that he started to feel better, at least by a tiny bit.

Though, Stefan already helped him feel _a tiny bit better_ in his office earlier.

Cole exhales deeply, resting his hat on the dashboard and leaning his head back so it hits the back of the seat. “Today was—” He stops, searching for the right words. “— _ugh._ ” He doesn’t find them.

Stefan turns the engine over, humming. “No kidding,” he says, and he bites his lip as he pulls away from the station, “There goes the majority of our alone time, huh? We had a nice couple of weeks, at least.”

A frown pulls at Cole’s lips. “I tried, Stefan,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I suppose it varies from captain to captain; you know, the leniency and all that.” He stares up at the roof of the car, eyebrows furrowed. “...Jesus Christ, Roy said all of that in front of the entire station. God.”

“He certainly has a way with words,” Stefan says, and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, “Probably a good thing you shut him up when you did. Lord knows he would’ve kept running his mouth.” A pause, as his eyebrows furrow. “Do you think he’s actually figured it out?”

“I—” Cole stops, putting a hand to his chin in thought. “I can’t see _how,_ ” he says, “but— if he didn’t know, he probably does now. I may have reacted a little _too_ extremely.”

Stefan snorts. “A _little_? You sent him to the _floor_ ,” he says, and he grins, “Still proud of you, by the way. I think I proved it enough earlier, but...” He trails off.

Cole can’t help but smile. “Yes, you very much did,” he says, resting his hand in the space between the driver’s side and the passenger’s side. He wants to hold Stefan’s hand. “We’ll have to stop for a new suit, if that’s alright,” he says, the smile not leaving his face. “I’m sure we have enough to buy new ones for both of us.”

Stefan hums, taking one hand off the steering wheel to lace his fingers through Cole’s. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says, and a grin spreads across his face, “I can think of one or two things a dressing room is good for.”

At that, Cole inhales sharply— exhales. Something electric runs through his body, and his grip on Stefan’s hand tightens just a bit. Even the thought of it makes him weak. “I can only assume what the other thing is,” he says, his intense gaze fixated on Stefan’s face as he carefully brings his hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“You’d assume correctly,” Stefan says, and he breathes out a laugh, “God, I love you. I love you so much.” A pause. “And if it wasn't still light out, I’d pull over right now and kiss you senseless.”

Cole hums, and something flashes in his eyes. Then, he’s moving to roll up Stefan’s sleeve, pressing small kisses up his arm all the while. “Damn those— what are they called? Rubberneckers?” He chuckles, his voice a little muffled by his mouth against Stefan’s skin.

Stefan lets out another breathy laugh. “I guess that’d be the term to use, yes,” he says, “Though, you know— what you’re doing right now is _also_ pretty visible.”

“For the first time in my life,” Cole says, stopping to press another kiss to Stefan’s arm, “I don’t care.” He lets out another chuckle, a little lower this time. “All that matters to me right now is you.”

“There’s ways to show me that that _aren’t_ visible,” Stefan says, something awfully flirtatious to his tone.

Briefly, surprise crosses Cole’s face— then, he lets out a short laugh and lets go of Stefan’s arm, lowering his head.

 

* * *

 

As they pull up to the department store, Cole sits up enough to see, wiping at his mouth with the bare part of his arm. “Are we here?”

Stefan inhales sharply, fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel. “I—” He stops to clear his throat when that comes out in a voice crack. “Hold on. I need a minute.”

Cole stifles a laugh, reaching out to brush a bit of Stefan’s hair out of his face. “Good to know that I’ve still got it,” he says matter-of-factly, pushing some of his own hair out of his face. “It’s been… two years? That sounds right.”

Stefan stares at him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “What, during the _war_? Jesus Christ, Cole, what all did you get up to?”

Cole gives him _the face_ for a moment, but it quickly breaks into a smile. He exhales amusedly through his nose. “I didn’t know I was— _you know_ until then,” he says, and for the first time he doesn’t feel bad about it. Maybe that’s a bad sign, but— for the moment, he feels free. “My whole unit, too, apparently.” His tone is dry.

“Okay, _wow_ ,” Stefan says, and he lets out a laugh. “Guess that means there’s somebody out there I should be thanking, then.”

Cole inhales sharply— stops. “I suppose so,” he says, and it all comes out as a rush of air. There’s a degree of bitterness behind his words. “We aren’t on very… _friendly_ terms.”

Stefan hums. “Oh,” he says, “Uh— sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Ah—” Cole lets out a small laugh, reaching out to cup Stefan’s cheek. “It’s alright. I’m not _all_ that torn up about it.” He’s about to say something else— then, a nearby car honks and he quickly pulls away.

“We should probably get inside,” Stefan says, and he’s fumbling with his belt. “I _really_ need a new suit now.”

Another laugh from Cole, more out of surprise than anything else. “Good _God,_ Stefan,” he says, unable to suppress the grin on his face as he moves to get out. He makes his way to the other side of the car, holding open the door for Stefan.

“Hey, you signed up for this,” Stefan says, and he moves to get out. He gestures to all of himself. “Bad jokes and all.”

“I did,” Cole says, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “Is it too late to take myself off of the mailing list?” He cracks a smile— he can’t even keep a straight face with that one.

Stefan laughs. “Yep, sorry,” he says, “I came with a lifetime guarantee.”

Something in Cole’s heart flutters. He inhales deeply and, suddenly, everything feels right with the world. “I couldn’t be happier about that,” he says, putting his hand on Stefan’s shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. “Really and truly.”

Stefan is practically beaming at him. Is it possible that his smile is even brighter than the sun? “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, and he cannot stop _grinning_. He lowers his voice before continuing, leaning in just enough. “I love you.”  
  
Cole inhales sharply— suddenly, he’s speechless. The sun is gradually setting just behind Stefan, and now _he_ swears he’s seeing an angel. “I love _you_ ,” he breathes out, a smile tugging at his lips. “More than you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Long time no notes. Just popping in to specify what suit Cole gets, since that science teacher look is a sin and my heart cries whenever I see it.
> 
> Anyways. It's The Broderick but with a matching vest. Please enjoy that #look.
> 
> \- denounce (riley)


	9. Vice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marie sees a siren. Cole gives in to his vices. Jack is plagued by things he wishes he could forget.

“Jesus, lady, don’t you think you should slow down?”

Marie just breathes out a laugh, throwing back her fifth shot. It burns her throat and makes her eyes water, but God _damn_ if it doesn’t take her mind off of everything. “There’s nowhere to go but forward,” she says, passing her shot glass back to the bartender. “Another.”

The bartender looks uncomfortable as he takes the glass. “You can pay?” He squints at her incredulously.

“‘Course I can pay,” Marie says, scoffing. “What do you take me for, a leech?” She watches the bartender go to refill her shot, rubbing her face. “Maybe I am a leech,” she mutters.

“That’s your own problem, lady,” the bartender says, passing her the shot glass. “Not mine.” He watches her gulp it down almost immediately, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder as she coughs. “Easy, easy. Jes- _us,_ you really got a death wish.”

Marie hums. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” she says. The sound of applause snaps her back to reality, and she turns to face the rest of the club with furrowed brows. “What’re they excited about? The music’s gone.”

“Star of the night’s about to come on,” the bartender says, leaning forward on his arms. He glances towards Marie. “You ever heard of Elsa Lichtmann?”

Marie’s expression doesn’t change as she looks at him. “Who?”

The bartender just raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the stage. “See for yourself.”

Marie’s gaze turns to the stage, and— her voice dies in her throat. The first thing to catch her eye is the magnificent, glittering jewelry, diamonds shining in the few bright lights of the club. Then, her vision begins to wander, lingering for all-too-long on the way this woman’s silky purple dress hugs her from, the fabric bunching up at her hips and then flowing freely over her legs. Briefly, Marie finds herself wishing she could see more.

_Hold on, what?_

Then, the woman begins to sing. God in Heaven above, her voice is _beautiful._ Marie doesn’t even know what she’s singing, but whatever it is, whoever made it must feel absolutely _blessed._ Call it silly, but— if she still believed in love, she would be down on one knee already.

The bartender lets out a low laugh, staring right at Marie— her mouth is wide open. “Me too, lady. Me too.” He goes back to his business with the bar, leaving her there to just watch.

Marie doesn’t even register him leaving until a moment later, too fixated on the ethereal siren of a woman on stage. _So this is Elsa Lichtmann,_ she muses, leaning back onto the bar and inhaling sharply. Her heart has never jumped in this way. She’s never felt— whatever _this_ is before now. All of her apathy and bitterness has melted away, leaving only wonder and admiration.

Then, their eyes meet. Marie finds herself frozen solid in Elsa’s gaze, feeling warmth rush to her cheeks in what she can only assume is— _is—_ she doesn’t even _know_ what it is. She’s so lost in Elsa’s bright blue eyes that she doesn’t even notice the subtle curl to her lips— she’s smiling at Marie, and in that moment it feels as if she’s singing for _her_.

Marie’s breath catches in her chest, her heart hammering against her ribcage. God, she feels like she’s going to _die._ Exhaling sharply with a breath she didn’t know she was holding, Marie turns right around.

“I—” Her throat is dry. “I need another drink.”

 

* * *

 

It’s barely even been ten minutes since he and Stefan parted for the different squad rooms, but Cole already misses him.

He’s been telling himself for _days_ he wouldn’t react this way, but the moment he set foot into that empty Vice room, his inner romantic took over and began tugging at his heartstrings. Cole rubs at his eyes, exhaling sharply. It’s bad enough that he’s here early; he’s here early without _him._ Without _Stefan,_ the man he loves.

Cole finds himself smiling at that, eyes shut contentedly. He just can’t stop thinking about him; no matter where he is, no matter what he’s doing, Stefan’s handsome face is plastered all over his mind. He feels a bit ridiculous, but— he’s never felt so strongly about anyone, not even—

He inhales sharply, pushing that thought away as soon as it comes. Not today. Definitely not right _now._

Lucky for him, a distraction by the name of Roy Earle comes waltzing up with a smarmy grin on his face and a cigarette in hand. “Morning, Cole,” he says, and he takes a quick drag, blowing smoke out. “Ready for your first Vice case?”

Cole’s eyes flick to Roy’s cigarette before he meets his eyes. “I suppose,” he hums, sitting up straight and rigid. “After all, I have to be.”

Roy lets out a laugh. “Lighten up,” he says, “No need to act like Death himself this early in the morning.”

“I haven’t had my coffee,” Cole says dryly, shifting in his seat. He’s a little more comfortable around Roy— most likely due to the concern he had shown during the whole eviction fiasco. It’s a nice change of pace, albeit barely noticeable.

Roy rolls his eyes and claps a hand on his back. “Sure, buddy,” he says, “I doubt anything can actually help your personality, but if that’s what you need, we’ll get you some.”

Cole barely even reacts, his expression as hard as a stone. “Right,” he says. There’s a long, silent moment where he’s still sitting there and Roy’s still standing, staring at each other a bit awkwardly. Cole just raises a brow. “You can get it now.”

For a second, Roy stands there slack jawed. Then, sarcastically, he says, “Anything for you, honey.” He takes another drag of his cigarette and blows smoke before heading off to grab Cole’s coffee.

Cole watches him go, dragging a hand down his face and resting it on his jaw. The smoke’s starting to get to him— he’s suddenly craving a cigarette after years of being clean, and that impulse only grows stronger when Roy comes back into the room. Wordlessly, he accepts the coffee and takes a sip. His nose wrinkles. “Did you bring any creamer?”

“No,” Roy says, and that damn cigarette is still in his fingers, “Didn’t know you were the type. I’ll remember next time.”

Cole just hums, eyeing the offending cigarette carefully. He takes another sip of coffee, even though the bitterness is _killing_ him. “Can you put that out?” He says, finally, looking up at Roy with furrowed brows.

Roy opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. Without a word, he reaches behind to him to put it out in somebody else’s ashtray. “Happy?” He asks.

Cole nods, setting aside his cup of coffee and sighing deeply. “Yes,” he says, “thank you.” There’s another bout of silence, Cole’s fingers tapping on the desk. He seems oddly restless. “Just— having to hold myself back from a bad habit. I can’t assume you know how that feels, but— I certainly hope you understand.”

Raising an eyebrow, Roy moves to sit on the edge of the desk. “When’d you give up smoking?” He asks, “When did you _start_ in the first place? I can’t even imagine you with a cigarette in your hand.”

“I gave it up shortly after the war,” Cole says, looking up at him with his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I don’t remember when I started. Maybe… fifteen? I don’t know. It was a dare.”

Roy just stares at him. A snort escapes. Then, he’s completely breaking down into laughter. “ _You_? A _dare_?” He manages to get out between wheezing snickers, “You’re so— you’re so straight-laced. I refuse to believe it.”

Cole quirks a brow. “I wasn’t always this way,” he says, his eyes locked with Roy’s. “What happened was— I was playing a silly game amongst friends, and I was eventually dared to smoke for the first time. So I got up, took a pack of cigarettes from my father’s desk, and returned to the circle.” He gives a slight shrug. “I thought nothing of it at the time.”

“That’s—” Roy’s still losing it. For a moment, Cole finds himself enjoying the way Roy laughs, but— he just pushes away that thought. “God. I just can’t even picture it. As far as I’m concerned, you came into the world with a tie and a scowl.”

Cole exhales amusedly through his nose, shaking his head with a lightly suppressed smile. “No, no,” he says, “you’d be surprised at what I used to do.”

“Oh, _really_?” Roy asks, and he’s got that _smirk_ on his face as he leans in a little closer, “I’d love to hear _all_ about it.”

Cole shifts to face him a little more, eyebrows raised. “Oh, wouldn’t you,” he says dryly, putting a hand to his chin pensively. “Let me think— ah. There was this one time I got in a fistfight with one of the top dogs of our high school.”

Roy lets out another wheezy laugh. “Let me guess— you lost.”

“He had to go to the hospital due to a broken rib,” Cole deadpans, taking a sip of coffee for punctuation.

That gets Roy to shut up— for a second. “Jesus _Christ_ , Cole,” he says, “I would say remind me not to get on your bad side, but—” He makes a vague gesture to his still bruised face. “A little too late for that, I think.”

Cole’s eyes are on the bruises, and he gives a low chuckle. “You look like you’ve been stung by a bee,” he says, and he actually starts _laughing._

Roy’s staring at him again— anybody who’s observant enough would say he’s almost starry-eyed, in fact. “I’ve never heard you laugh so much before,” he remarks, “It’s nice, but—” Another vague hand gesture. “Weird.”

At that, Cole stops, staring up at Roy with a quizzical expression. He’s got that _interrogation_ look on his face, but he doesn’t say anything for the longest time. “Right,” he says, finally, “I’m— flattered.” He dips his head in acknowledgement, his eyes flicking down to stare through—not at—the man in front of him.

Roy opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. He clears his throat. “I’m going to go outside and smoke,” he says, “Let me know if we get an assignment.” That’s all he has to say before he’s heading for the door, already lighting up another cigarette.

Cole watches him go, about to say something, but— he’s gone before he even takes a breath. He inhales sharply. “Right, yes, that’s fair,” he mumbles to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he stares down at his watch—

...It’s… moving.

His watch is moving. _Hank’s_ watch is moving. Cole’s heart almost stops at the sight, watching the second hand tick on and the minute hand go with it. His gaze snaps up to the clock on the wall— it’s perfectly synced. Has it been working since two forty-five in the morning?

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, glancing between the clock and the watch almost feverishly. _Oh my God._ His eyes start to sting. _Oh my God, it’s really him._

Cole’s lips twitch into a smile.

 

* * *

 

Their first assignment as partners has been going rather smoothly; two dead musicians pumped full of morphine, a runner, a booker, a hustler— _and lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my,_ Cole had deadpanned. But here they are now, standing over the bullet-riddled body of Lenny Finkelstein, better known as Lenny the Fink. They had been caught up in a shoot-out at Polar Bear Ice Co., and it all came to a head with this— executing one of the most powerful gangsters in L.A.’s brother-in-law.

Cole just stares down at the still-bleeding body, swallowing hard. Gunfire rings in his ears, and his knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping his gun. He had hoped to never hear that terrible, incessant ringing again, but it’s suddenly come back in full force. Sure, there’s already been plenty of gun fights, but none of them have left him so shaken up before. Maybe it's the close proximity. Maybe it's the fact that he’s with _Roy,_ not—

“Cole.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. It’s not the same, but— it’s something. “Buddy. You holding up alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Cole replies instinctively, but he definitely doesn't sound fine; his words come out in a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, his jaw tightening. “I'm— fine.”

Roy looks him up and down, eyebrows furrowed. For a minute, their eyes lock and— concern is written on his face. Not the first time Cole’s seen it, but it’s still strange. “If you say so,” he remarks, “Let’s just get you out of here, yeah? I think you need a minute to relax.”

For a long moment, Cole’s eyes flick back to Lenny's body. He inhales sharply— exhales. “Yeah, yes, that sounds—” His voice dies in his throat. “Out. I need air.” He's descending the stairs now, heading straight for the doors once he's on the floor.

Roy stares after him and then, he starts to follow him. When they step into the sunlight together, he squints up at it, adjusting the brim of his hat to shield his eyes. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” He asks, “You seem a little shaken up.”

“I'm going to be fine,” Cole says, but he doesn't sound all that sure. He inhales deeply— exhales, over and over again, in, out, in, out, like a breathing exercise. Then, he shuts his eyes tight and rubs at his temples. “I’m going to be fine _eventually._ ”

“Eventually,” Roy parrots. Hesitantly, he reaches out for Cole— pulls his hand back like he’s just too hot to touch. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets instead. “Think of it this way. You’ve solved your first Vice case and that’s something to celebrate.” A pause, as he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and goes to light up. He takes a long drag before continuing. “First one is always the roughest. Not that they get any easier, but— you’ll get used to it. I have.”

“I didn’t expect it to be this intense in a single day,” Cole says, and his eyes are fixed on Roy’s cigarette again. He inhales sharply and— he’s holding out his hand. “Just one.” He sounds utterly defeated.

“You sure?” Roy asks. Regardless of the question, he’s already holding the pack out to Cole. “I don’t know if you actually need it, buddy, but…” He trails off.

Cole takes one out, placing it between his teeth and gesturing for Roy’s lighter. “Just— just one,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone else.

Roy hums and flicks his lighter on, reaching out to light the cigarette for him. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Cole just nods, taking a drag and coughing as he breathes it out. The cigarette rests between his pointer and middle finger, his hand dropping to his side. “Thank you,” he says, but he doesn’t look at Roy. He looks out at the street, the cars driving past the scene and the police cars approaching to investigate. “I’m not usually this shaken up about it. My apologies.”

“What’s there to apologize for?” Roy asks. His gaze follows Cole’s out towards the street. He brings his own cigarette to his lips— takes a drag and blows out smoke. “Shit happens. We just have to try to forget it and move on.”

Cole exhales through his nose, almost in a scoff. “Forget it or repress it?” He asks dryly, taking a much easier drag from his cigarette. No coughing, no difficulties. A bad sign; he doesn’t want to be so _used_ to it again.

“Little of both,” Roy snarks. He flicks ash onto the sidewalk. “Don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to call it quits for the day.”

Cole nods. “Right,” he says. He starts to look around, his eyebrows furrowed. “You can go on ahead. I have to make a call.” Without waiting for a response, he starts walking off, putting the cigarette between his teeth and crossing his arms. He stops for just a moment, but once he spots a phone booth, he’s off.

He crosses the street at the crosswalk, his mind on autopilot as he enters the phone booth, pays, and puts in the one number he knows by heart. Though, he supposes it’s his number too— and that just brings a much-needed smile to his face. Once he’s put through, he speaks up. “Stefan?”

“Hello, beautiful,” comes Stefan’s voice on the other line, and his tone is teasing, “Miss me much?”

“I did, actually,” Cole says, shifting slightly. “All I could think about was you. Which didn’t help the investigation much, but…” He chuckles. “Provided the comfort I needed.” He looks up, watching cars go by.

“Well, glad to be of assistance,” Stefan says. “You crack the case or are you going to be coming home late?”

“Good news,” Cole says, and he can feel himself smiling even brighter. “I was calling to see if you could pick me up. Didn’t want to ride back to the station with Roy.”

“I don’t blame you,” Stefan says, and there’s something shuffling in the background. Maybe he’s putting his jacket on. “Tell me where to go and I’ll be more than happy to come get you.”

“I’m at—” Cole stops, turning around so he can look up at the building behind him. “The _one_ phone booth in front of this— local diner near the Polar Bear Ice Company building. Do you know where that is?”

“Sure do,” Stefan says, “Be there as soon as I can. I love you.”

“I love you more,” Cole returns, a pleasant smile tugging at his lips.

“I love you the most,” Stefan says, and even over the phone, it’s obvious he’s grinning. It’s all he has to say before hanging up.

 

* * *

 

Until now, it’s been a normal night for Cole and Stefan.

They got home, Stefan fixed up dinner, they had some time to themselves, then they went to bed. It’s all been within routine; the same as yesterday, the day before, and most likely tomorrow. But tonight, there’s a disturbance— a break in rhythm. Cole had woken up at two forty-five in the morning, his eyes wide open and cheeks damp. A bad dream. For the first time since he and Stefan started living together, _a bad dream._

He eventually got up and carefully made his way into the living room, but he had grabbed a few things beforehand— clothing, of course, and… cigarettes. He _hated_ himself for it, but he grabbed _cigarettes._

Now he’s sitting on the windowsill set a little far into the wall, one leg hanging off and his back against the inner wall. The window’s open just a crack, his eyes fixed on the cityscape below as a cigarette hangs from his lips. His second one— he’s already halfway through it.

Cole inhales deeply, taking it between his fingers and blowing out a cloud of smoke. He barely registers the sound of footsteps— then, silence.

“You’re smoking?”

He turns to see Stefan, standing there as still as a statue. “I—” Cole runs his free hand through his hair. “I suppose I am.” With that, the cigarette returns to his lips.

For a long moment, Stefan says nothing. Then, he crosses the room to stand at Cole’s side. “Any reason why?” He asks, and he leans a hand against the wall with the other on his hip.

There’s a long bout of silence, but it isn’t uncomfortable or awkward. It’s… _solemn._ Cole takes a long drag from the cigarette, breathing out a plume of smoke. His eyes don't leave the cityscape, tired and weighed down by something more than exhaustion. “I haven't smoked in years,” he mumbles, and he moves to take another drag— but he stops, clenches his teeth. His head tilts back until it hits the wall, his eyes slipping shut. “I still feel it, Stefan. Every goddamn night. I still feel his blood, the— the sickening warmth.” He visibly shudders, inhaling shakily and moving the cigarette back to his lips. “No matter how hard I scrub at my skin, the sensation doesn't go away.”

Stefan stares at him, slack jawed. He shifts slightly— moves to cross his arms instead. “How long have you been bottling this up?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You can talk to me, you know. It’s what I’m here for.” His eyes flick down to the cigarette, a rare frown tugging at his lips. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to resort to vices like this when something’s bothering you.”

Cole is dead silent. He looks up at Stefan, finally, and it’s clear now how broken up he is. There are distinct, dark circles around his eyes— something he had wished would never return. For once, there’s no walls. “I’ve been holding it in for two years,” he says, his voice soft. “Everything I’ve told you— that’s the most I’ve said about him since he…” He trails off, eyebrows furrowing. He moves to take one last drag from the cigarette, wearing it down to almost nothing and flicking it out of the window with an exhale of smoke.

“You don’t have to say it,” Stefan says. Carefully, gently, he reaches out to put a hand on Cole’s face and tilt his chin up towards him. “But I am here to listen. Always. No matter what it’s about.”

Cole’s eyes lock with Stefan’s, and in that moment, he can swear that his love for this incredible, amazing, _perfect_ man has grown tenfold. He leans his face into Stefan’s hand, staring up at him with a weary, piercing gaze. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Stefan says, and he offers him a comforting smile.

Taking a deep breath, Cole tells him everything.

 

* * *

 

All is still for once.

It wouldn’t last for long. It never did, but— Jack likes what little peace they can get. As it is, he’s absentmindedly wandering around the camp right now, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Sometimes it helps to just have something clenched between his teeth. A reminder he’s still here— a reminder he’s still alive. He bites down harder and wanders further out.

He’s not surprised to find Cole by himself, just outside of the camp, where the lights are the most dim and the noise from their comrades is muffled. He takes out his lighter finally— flicks it on and puts the flame to the cigarette between his teeth. “Mind if I join you?” He asks, but it’s not much of a question, not really.  

Cole seems a little surprised to hear his voice, tensing up ever-so-slightly. He untenses once he turns around, his icy blue eyes fixed on Jack’s face. “I don’t mind, no,” he says, turning his face back towards the sky.

Jack hums and moves to flop down beside him, taking a long drag. He blows out smoke and watches it drift upwards. “See anything spectacular up there?”

“Constellations,” Cole says, his gaze flicking over and staring at the cigarette. He exhales sharply, looking up at the sky. “Mostly just counting stars, though.” A pause. “May we share?”

“Normally, I’d refuse, but—” Jack moves to offer the cigarette to him. “Hell, what can I say? I’m feeling generous.”

Cole takes the cigarette between his fingers, taking a far-too-long drag and coughing as he blows out the smoke. He mutters a quiet “fuck,” passing it back after. “I needed that.”

“Don’t we all,” Jack drawls, and he takes a drag of his own. Very few things soothe him these days, but nicotine helps. “Let’s just not talk about it tonight. Tell me something. Anything.”

Cole hums, his eyes on the stars. “I see _Canes Venatici,_ ” he says, shifting to get a little more comfortable. “The Hound Dogs, as they’re known in English. Look—” He leans a little closer to Jack, pointing at two bright stars. “Those two.”

Jack’s gaze follows where he’s pointing— then, it flicks back to Cole. He’s close— almost _too_ close and it leaves his mouth dry. Even in the dark, he can make out the freckles on his face. _Constellations, huh_? He shakes his head and says, “Just looks like a couple of specks to me.”

“That’s—” Cole stops, clearing his throat. “That’s essentially what they are, if you boil it down to the basics,” he says, and he starts to look around for another constellation. Soon, his eyes drop down to Jack’s face— he’s caught him staring. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, and he leans back a little to stare up at the stars more easily, “Just thinking.” A pause, as an idea hits him. A terribly stupid idea, but— an idea, nonetheless, and no worse than any other one he’s had in the past couple of months. He tilts his head to glance at Cole, something of a teasing grin on his face. “Can you believe that even though we’re under a sky as beautiful as this, I still think you’re the better view?”

For a long moment, Cole just stares at him, his eyes having widened just a bit. “I—” He quickly looks away, running a hand through his hair. His eyes are on the ground now, eyebrows furrowed. “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m sure you don’t really mean that.” His voice is unusually quiet.

“I may be a lot of things, Phelps, but I’m not a liar,” Jack says, and he reaches out to tilt Cole’s face towards him, keeping his hand there for longer than necessary. He lowers his voice. “And I would especially never lie about a face as nice as yours.”

Cole goes tense, his eyes locked with Jack’s. “What are you doing?” He asks, swallowing hard. He’s trying to keep himself composed, but— there’s a small amount of _nervousness_ in his eyes, something Jack’s never seen before.

“Being stupidly bold,” Jack says, and he leans in a little bit, eyes half-lidded, “If that’s alright with you. Stop me if it’s not.”

Much to Jack’s surprise, Cole leans in, their lips meeting in one swift movement. It’s nothing special— there’s no fireworks, no electricity, just a kiss, but still a pretty nice one. Cole pulls away a moment later, and his blue eyes look just a bit more _intense_ than usual. He inhales sharply. “So you really are—”

“I suppose I am, yes,” Jack says, “Is that a problem?”

Cole shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed as his gaze drops from Jack’s face. “No, there’s not,” he says. “I just—” There’s an unbearably long silence between them, Cole’s eyes firmly on the ground. “I don’t know what I am.”

Jack hums. “Don’t need to know to fool around,” he remarks. Carefully, gently, he tilts Cole’s face up to look at him again. “I mean, if you’re up for it. Feel free to turn me down. I won’t mind.”

Cole’s eyes dart around Jack’s face, and something unreadable crosses his expression. It’s almost hesitation. “I—” His voice is suddenly hoarse. “I’m fine with it. I— _want_ it.”

Grinning, Jack leans in and—

He jolts up in bed, breathing heavily. For _fuck’s_ sake, had he really dreamt about _that_? Letting out a groan, he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until he’s seeing stars instead of— no. No, no, no. It’s been years. Why think about this _now_?  

Beside him, the covers shift. Jack tenses up. He’d forgotten about Courtney. _God, please don’t wake up—_

No, he could only be so lucky. “Jack?” Courtney’s voice is slurred by sleep. He shifts again— he’s sitting up now, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Something happen?”

Jack inhales sharply. Exhales. “Nothing happened,” he says, “Just— flashbacks.” That isn’t a lie, at least, but this is the first time he can honestly say he prefers the _other_ kind of flashbacks. “Sorry for waking you.”

A small frown tugs at Courtney’s lips, and a hand comes up to rest on Jack’s bare shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

For a long moment, Jack is silent. Then, he buries his face in his hands and hisses out, “ _Fucking Phelps_.”


	10. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy's pride gets in the way. Cole's past comes back to bite him. Stefan is reminded of something he wishes to forget.

Another day, another payoff.

A cool breeze blows past as Roy makes his way out to his car, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and stack of cash in hand, fingers deftly leafing through it to make sure he didn’t get stiffed. Nope. All there. Smug smile spreading across his face, he tucks it into the inside of his jacket and pulls out his lighter instead. He takes a long, well-needed drag, relishing in the taste of nicotine and smoke filling his lungs. Surprising how hypocritical junkies could be— his latest mark had a staunch  _no smoking_ policy and he’d been itching for a fix the entire time he’d been dealing with him.

Somehow, and all this does is put him in a fouler mood, his mind drifts to Cole. It’s been doing that a lot these days, but— right now, as he takes another hit, all he can think of is Cole, Cole, _Cole_. Maybe it’s because he hates smoking just as much as the asshole he’d just bled dry. Maybe it’s because he knows deep down that Cole would despise him for all the shady business he does on the side with junkies and dealers and other corrupt cops. Maybe— too many maybes. Roy hates maybes. He slides into the seat of his car and… nothing. He just sits there, cigarette bit between his teeth and fingers tightly curled around the steering wheel to steady them. An odd feeling settles in the pit of his stomach— one he unfortunately recognizes as guilt.

He wants to laugh at how pathetic he is. Instead, he scowls and moves to flick ash onto the street before turning the engine over, hoping the noise would drown out his thoughts. What does it even matter? Cole isn’t his. There’s no point in feeling _guilty_. Guilt is for junkies and lowlifes with crime on their conscience. He’s neither of those things, but— a voice in the back of his head is screaming that he _is_ a lowlife. He decides to ignore it.

Briefly, Roy glances at the watch on his wrist and— he swears up a storm when he realizes he’s twenty minutes late to a meeting with Elysian all the way across town. Great. Fantastic. It definitely doesn’t help that Monroe’s an impatient man; he’s sure to get an earful and a half about timeliness, but perhaps that’s what he needs right now. It’s a distraction from his idiotic thoughts. Unlike maybes, he likes distractions.

He finally goes to pull away from the building then, fingers curled around the steering wheel again— so tightly that his hands sting from the pressure.

 _Damn it, Cole_.

 

* * *

 

September.

The edge of summer, coming to a slow halt and breaking through to autumn. Morning sunlight shines in and fresh air flows through open windows, and finally it isn’t sweltering outside. Cole leans on the windowsill, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. “I love autumn,” he comments, a pleasant smile tugging at his lips.

Stefan hums, coming up behind him and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, one hand on his shoulder. “I love any season with you in it,” he says, and he can’t help but smile too, “Come on, breakfast’s ready.”

Cole leans into his grasp, his eyes fluttering shut at the little kiss. That smile of his grows into a contented grin. “What did you make?” He turns around so he can face Stefan, reaching up and absentmindedly brushing a few strands of his hair back into place.

“Was just trying to use up the last of the bacon and eggs,” Stefan says. He leans down to give Cole a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll have to go grocery shopping later.”

Cole gives a slight hum, opening his mouth to respond— but the phone ringing cuts him off. He breathes out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Our phone line is awfully popular as of late.”

“Is it our phone or _you_ that’s popular?” Stefan asks, tone teasing. He gives Cole another kiss before breaking away. “I’ll answer it.” That’s all he has to say before he’s making his way over to the phone and picking up the receiver. “Stefan Bekowsky speaking.”

“Oh,” It’s Marie. She clears her throat. “Hello, Mr. Bekowsky. Is Cole there?”

“One second.” Stefan glances back over his shoulder at Cole, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Surprise, surprise,” he says, “It’s for you. Marie’s on the other end.”

Cole blinks, his eyebrows furrowing. “Strange. We talked yesterday.” He just shrugs, crossing over to Stefan’s side and taking the phone. “Uh— hello, Marie,” he says, and— he stops, glancing up at Stefan. “ _...What_ about our lawyer?”

Stefan raises an eyebrow. Cole inhales deeply to speak, only for his voice to die in his throat as he looks away. “He wants to introduce a _what?_ ” He says finally, and he almost sounds _scared._ “Marie, did you tell him about Stefan and I?”

At that, Stefan frowns. _Don’t like the sound of that_. He puts a comforting hand on Cole’s shoulder and leans in slightly to whisper. “What is she saying?”

Cole’s about to respond to him, but— he’s obviously cut off, by the way his brows crease in irritation and he breathes out a sharp sigh. He holds up a finger, looking away as he continues speaking to Marie. “There is absolutely no reason for him to be suspecting that,” he says. There’s a pause— then, he lets out a disbelieving scoff. “A _pattern of behavior?_ Marie, this isn’t _behavior,_ it’s—” He’s cut off. “No, no, I know you didn’t have anything to do with this—” He puts his hand to his forehead. “Jesus Christ, slow _down._ Just— tell him it’s unnecessary. We’re handling it ourselves.” His jaw clenches at her next reply. “Okay. Great. Fantastic. _I’m hanging up._ ” With that, he practically slams the phone back on the receiver.

For a moment, Stefan just stares at him— lets him breathe. Then, he says, “So, want to tell me what all of that was about?”

Cole runs his hand down his face, staring down at the ground in complete silence. Then, his gaze snaps up to Stefan’s face. “The lawyer wants to introduce a—” He scoffs, moving to make air-quotes with his pointer and middle fingers. “—‘ _morality clause.’_ ”

“And what does that mean?” Stefan asks.

“It means that we can’t be together while the divorce is ongoing,” Cole says, inhaling sharply and running a hand through his hair. “They think that I have a destructive pattern of behavior just because I’m—” He stops with a frustrated groan, covering his face with his hands. “God, this isn’t happening.”

Stefan is silent— never a good sign coming from him. After a moment, he scoffs. “Well, that’s _bullshit_ ,” he says. “Is she claiming she has nothing to do with this?”

“She thinks I’ll _believe_ that,” Cole says, dropping his hands from his face and shaking his head. “God, it _has_ to be her. She’s the only person who knew that I—” He stops, inhaling deeply. “I wasn’t… the most faithful, during the war. But until then, I— I didn’t even _know_ I only had feelings for men.”

“What’s in the past is in the past,” Stefan says, and he reaches out to put his hands on Cole’s shoulders, leaning in to meet him at eye level. “It isn’t right of her to be doing this, regardless.”

Cole nods, looking up to meet Stefan’s eyes. “I just— don’t want to lose you or my daughters,” he admits, quiet and soft. “You all mean _everything_ to me.”

Stefan moves to bring him into a hug, instead. “I know,” he says, and he presses a feather-light kiss to the top of Cole’s head. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Cole leans heavily into Stefan’s embrace, fingers digging into his back. “We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, just to soothe himself, “we always do.” He breathes out a small laugh, despite everything. “I love you. You always know how to make me feel better.”

Stefan holds him tighter. “I love you more,” he says, “I’m just doing what I do best.”

“You’re awfully good at it,” Cole mumbles, hesitantly pulling away. He takes that moment to look up at Stefan, and unwittingly he’s moved to cup his cheek. “Breakfast is probably cold by now.”

“Probably,” Stefan says, and he grins at Cole, “but I don’t care. Long as I got you around.”

Cole chuckles, and he’s about to say something— but he suddenly winces, his eyes narrowing. “I knew I forgot something last night,” he says, pointing at his eyes. “I forgot to take out my contacts.”

“Your what?” Stefan asks, eyebrows raised.

“My contacts,” Cole repeats, moving away from him and making his way towards the bathroom. He keeps the door open, and— Dear God, he’s genuinely taking out _contacts._ “I have _horrible_ eyesight,” he remarks, blinking a few times once his eyes are bare. “Extremely nearsighted.”

“I had no idea,” Stefan says, and he trails after him, leaning on the door frame of the bathroom. He watches Cole reach into the cabinet, pulling out a glasses case and flipping it open. “Guess we still have things to learn about each other.”

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Cole turns to look at him. Somehow, and Stefan isn’t sure how this is even within the _realm_ of possibility, he’s even more of an angel with his glasses on. “That’s the exciting thing, isn’t it?” Cole muses, giving a small smile.

Stefan shoots him a grin. “It is,” he says, “and I find myself falling more and more in love with you every day.”

Cole chuckles, coming over to Stefan and reaching up to gently cup his face, rubbing with his thumb. “Funny,” he says, “I find myself in the same situation.” A smile creeps onto his face. “You know, we haven’t gone somewhere together in a while. How does our usual place sound after work?”

“Sounds perfect,” Stefan says. He leans into kiss him— a little less softer than before. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against Cole’s and moves to place his hands on his waist. “Though, not to sound like even _more_ of a lovesick fool, I could go anywhere with you and be happy.”

Cole finds himself grinning, now. “A _lovesick fool,_ ” he repeats, giving a small laugh. “Have you been reading _Romeo and Juliet?_ ”

“Maybe,” Stefan says, and he’s grinning too, rubbing his nose against Cole’s. “I thought I’d give it a shot since you enjoy it so much.”

“Good, good, it’s one of my favorites,” Cole murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss of his own to Stefan’s lips. “Like you.”

Stefan inhales sharply. “You sure know how to sweep a guy off his feet,” he says, and his tone is only slightly joking. “Keep talking like that and I might have to carry you back to the bedroom.”

Cole leans in— he knows that Stefan can feel his warm breath tingling on his lips. “Has your appetite changed?” He says, and for the first time, he sounds _teasing._ “What are you hungry for now, hm?”

“I think you already know,” Stefan says, almost breathlessly.

Cole can’t suppress the devious grin spreading across his face. He has Stefan right where he wants him; putty in his hands. “I suppose it’s time to sweep _me_ off _my_ feet.”

Stefan says nothing. Instead, in one swift movement, he lifts Cole up off the ground bridal-style. “I’m going to do _more_ than sweep you off your feet.”

Needless to say, Cole is surprised by the sudden gesture— but it immediately melts into desire. “Then—” He breathes out a low chuckle, leaning his head into Stefan’s shoulder. “ _Show me._ ”

 

* * *

 

Despite Cole's rather exciting morning, the rest of the day is dull and monotonous.

He and Roy have been led all around the city, busting small-time dealers and poor unfortunate addicts left and right. There's a silent, mutual sigh of relief when they reach their quota for the day, heavy with exhaustion. Well, _Cole’s_ exhausted; it seems that Roy never loses that restless edge to him. Briefly, Cole wonders if it's truly exhaustion— maybe he just wants to get home to his lover. Whatever the case, when Roy drags him into a diner, Cole wants to plant his feet at the door. He wants to turn around and run home, to Stefan, just so he can gaze into his eyes for a while.

But no. There is one lesson that Cole is slowly beginning to learn: Roy is a force that cannot be stopped.

Cole breathes out a short sigh, sliding into the booth opposite to Roy with two mugs of coffee. He slides the darker one towards Roy, keeping the heavily sweetened mug for himself.  “I don’t see why we’re here,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. He notes the dull pencil between the fingers of Roy’s left hand— he’s scribbling away at a napkin. Humming, Cole leans in to see. “What are you doing?”

At that, Roy scoffs. “Well, stop moving and find out,” he says, and he pauses only to take a swig of coffee, clearly not caring about the fact it’s still hot. He sets the mug aside and continues what he had been doing— drawing neat strokes, but Cole can’t quite see of _what_ , as his other hand is in the way. There’s a crease in his brow; a sign that he’s focused for once. “Are you actually drinking coffee or did you just ask them to pour sugar in milk?”

Cole scoffs, taking a careful sip from his mug. _Just right._ “No, I did this myself,” he says, giving a slight shrug. “I can’t stand regular coffee. It’s disgusting.”

Roy hums and says nothing for a minute, eyes on the napkin before him. Briefly, he glances up at Cole— then, back down, pencil still moving. “I don’t have a sweet tooth,” he says, “All that sugary junk is not for me.”

“Oh, is _Roy Earle_ the new face of healthy eating?” Cole snarks, cracking a small grin and trying to suppress a laugh. It doesn’t work; he ends up chuckling and shaking his head.

“I told you to stop moving,” Roy says, dryly. He keeps his gaze down. “Besides, what’s it to you? I’m not _that_ bad. Believe it or not, I know how to take care of myself.”

“How many packs a day, again?” Cole asks, raising a brow.

“Funny thing is I was down to just one before you came along,” Roy says, tone completely sarcastic. He finally glances back up at Cole, tapping his pencil against the table for a second before setting it down. Carefully, he slides the napkin across the table and goes to take another swig of burning hot coffee. If anybody paid close enough attention, they’d notice the faint flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “There. What do you think?”

Cole looks down, his eyebrows raising and his eyes going a little wide. _Oh._ Roy had been drawing _him—_ and it looks amazing. A smile crosses his face as he looks up to meet Roy’s eyes. “I think you should be an artist,” he remarks, glancing back down at the napkin. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

For a moment, Roy just gawks at him. All of a sudden, there’s the _slightest_ tint of color to his cheeks, and by the way Cole tilts his head and fixes him with a searching gaze, it’s obvious that he noticed. Roy looks away, shaking his head and scoffing. “Sure, and while we’re at it, why don’t I run for president, too?”

Despite the obvious deflection, Cole continues on. “Firstly, you hate politicians, as you’ve told me _numerous_ times, but—” He gestures towards the napkin. “This doesn’t just look like talent; it looks like a pursued hobby.”

Roy opens his mouth to speak— shuts it, as if he’s forgotten what to say. He taps his knuckles against the table. “It’s nothing special,” he remarks, “Just something I do in my free time. I don’t know.” He clears his throat and for once, his expression is soft, smoothing out the usual roughness of his features. “I considered art school. Law enforcement paid better.”

Cole hums, nodding. “I understand that,” he says, shifting in his seat. _Might as well open up, too._ “I was going to Stanford because I wanted to be an English teacher. But—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “The war happened.”

Roy moves to take a sip of his coffee. “War got in the way for a lot of us,” he says, and he stares into his mug for a minute, eyebrows furrowed. There’s a shift in his face, then. Gone is the softness, the honesty. “Teacher, though, huh? I would have _never_ guessed.” So much for being open. “Half the time, I feel like you’re going to give me a slap on the wrist with a ruler and _detention_.”

Cole exhales amusedly through his nose. “Are you just telling me what your school life was like?” He deadpans— then, his eyebrows furrow. “You know, I noticed something while you were drawing. Did your teachers ever enforce the whole—” He’s trying to think of how to continue. “—left-handedness superstition?”

Snorting slightly, Roy takes one more sip and sets his mug aside. “Sometimes I hate how observant you are,” he says, “but I guess you’d be a pretty terrible detective if you weren’t, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation because you’d be stuck on patrol.” He pauses. “I can write with both, but— better with my left, and since I went to Catholic school, the nuns weren’t too keen on that.”

“Catholic school,” Cole repeats, putting his hand to his chin in thought. His eyebrows are still furrowed. “That explains a lot.”

Roy scoffs. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve found that those who grow up in a more restrictive or oppressive environment end up being more reckless later on in life,” Cole explains as if it’s something simple, gesturing vaguely. “They didn’t have the proper avenues to explore their identity in their adolescence, so—” He stops, rubbing at the back of his neck. His gaze drops to the table as he purses his lips, deep in thought. “I might be getting carried away.”

Roy is gawking at him again. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “English teacher is right,” he says, and he snorts, “You ever get tired of talking so much?”

Cole breathes out a laugh that sounds more akin to a scoff, shaking his head. “I _have_ to,” he starts, and— he hesitates. Briefly, he wonders if he should be telling Roy this; he’s only told Stefan about his… issues. He swallows hard. “There’s just— always thoughts running through my head, about this, that, or the other. Speaking helps me compartmentalize everything.”

“Fair enough,” Roy says, “I don’t actually mind it, y’know. Sometimes it’s nice to hear somebody else’s thoughts for a change.”

Surprise crosses Cole’s face at that. “Oh— really?” He hums, offering Roy a small smile. “Thank you. I don’t hear that often.”

“You’re hanging around the wrong people, then,” Roy says without missing a beat.

Cole’s about to respond— but he instead spares a glance down to his now-operating watch, eyebrows shooting upwards. “Ah, it looks like my time is up,” he says, looking back up at Roy and smiling again. “This was— nice.” He clears his throat, standing up. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cole reaches for the napkin, but he stops, eyebrow raised as he looks at Roy. “Can I take this?”

Roy looks like he wants to say something, stars in his eyes, but he promptly shuts his mouth and nods his head. “Sure,” he says, “Not like I can stop you, anyway.” He waves a hand and moves to stand up as well. “See you tomorrow for another day of locking up lowlifes.”

Cole dips his head in a nod, taking the napkin and folding it neatly before pocketing it in his jacket. With that, he’s making his way out of the diner with a smile on his face. This is new— he’s usually miserable by the time he and Roy part ways, but this time… He shakes his head to clear the thought, continuing down the sidewalk once he’s outside. Sure enough, he finds Stefan waiting where he told him to— and that smile only broadens into a grin.

“Stefan!” He calls out to get his attention, feeling a flutter in his chest when their eyes meet. Even now, after weeks of being together, the sight of Stefan still brings him unmatched joy. He comes up to his side, looking around to make sure the coast is clear before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “How was your day?”

Stefan offers him a grin of his own. “It was fine, but it’s better now that you’re here,” he says, and he absentmindedly reaches out to adjust Cole’s tie. “How was yours?”

“Surprisingly pleasant,” Cole says, watching Stefan’s hands as he fixes his tie. “Roy was being strangely _nice_ to me, for one thing, and—” He laughs, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out the napkin. “He’s an artist, apparently.”

Stefan quirks an eyebrow, taking the napkin from him and unfolding it. He lets out an impressed hum, eyes darting from the drawing to Cole to the drawing again. “Color me surprised,” he says, and he passes it back, “Didn’t know he was capable of being something other than an asshole.”

“That was my first reaction,” Cole says, putting the napkin back in his jacket pocket. He claps his hands together then, smile on his face. “Alright, I chose to meet here because we’re within walking distance to the bar. Shall we?”

Stefan grins; it completely lights up his face. “We shall,” he says, and he claps a hand on Cole’s shoulder before heading in the direction of the bar.

The walk so far is pleasant; they’re making good conversation, going into detail about their days and talking about plans for the weekend. Cole comes up with the idea of going to dinner on Saturday, the 20th, just the two of them— and Stefan agrees. They turn a corner, and Cole has a pleased smile on his face as he speaks. “I have to tell you, I’m excited,” he says, walking just a bit closer to Stefan. “We haven’t had a chance to do— what, _couple things?_ ” He chuckles.

“Couple things,” Stefan repeats, and he bumps his hand into Cole’s just to remind him he’s there, “I like the sound of that.”

Cole’s about to say something in response, when suddenly he knocks shoulders with a passing man. Slightly disoriented, he turns around. “My apologies—” His voice dies in his throat as soon as he sees the man’s face.

Jack Kelso.

If his sour expression is anything to go by, he isn’t too happy to see Cole, either. He says nothing at first— just glares at him, hands curled into fists at his sides. Clearly, he’s restraining himself from doing _something_. “Phelps,” he finally says, “Wonderful running into you.”

Cole inhales sharply, setting his jaw and clearing his throat. “It’s a small world,” he says tentatively. He glances back, eyebrows furrowed. “Well, it’s— uh— _nice_ to see you again, but if you’ll excuse me—”

Suddenly and without warning, he’s cut off by Jack taking a hard swing at his jaw. So much for restraint. Needless to say, Cole is surprised— but he doesn’t go down. He stumbles back a little, yes, but he’s just staring at Jack and holding his jaw. Stefan looks back and forth between them. “Hey, asshole,” Stefan snaps, “What was that for?”

Jack merely hums, shaking out his hand. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now,” he says, and there’s barely concealed venom in his tone, “I see you had trouble kicking your old habits. Does Marie know about this one?”

Cole looks over his shoulder at Stefan. He holds out an arm to keep him from advancing, turning his gaze back to Jack then. “Marie and I have been separated since November of last _year,_ ” he says, clearly baffled. “Jesus Christ, Kelso, you couldn’t just tell me to go fuck myself?”

Jack scoffs. “Bless your heart,” he says, “Really. I think I’m a _little_ entitled to being angry at you after everything. I mean, seriously, did you think I _wouldn’t_ be?” He glances at Stefan again and his frown deepens. “You had no trouble moving on either, but knowing your track record, I’m not surprised.”

At that, Cole bristles, dropping his hand from his jaw. His nails dig into his palms. “Don’t you _dare_ bring _him_ into this,” he hisses, and heads are starting to turn. “You’re lucky that I’m an officer of the law, _Jack._ You’d be on the sidewalk in seconds.”

“Oh, please, I’m _so_ scared,” Jack says, and he rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time to sit around and argue to the point of exhaustion. I got what I wanted and then some.” At that, he turns on his heel to leave. “Always a pleasure, _Cole_.”

Stefan is still glaring long after Jack disappears into the crowd. “Seriously, who _was_ that asshole?”

Cole reaches up to hold his jaw again, grimacing. “I suppose he’s an—” He lets out a bitter laugh, using his free hand for air-quotes. “—an _‘ex.’_ ”

For a moment, Stefan stays quiet. Then, he says, “ _Oh_.” A pause— a terribly _long_ one. “You never said anything about there being anybody else.”

Cole frowns, averting his gaze and staring at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he starts, “I know I promised to tell you everything, but— I don’t know.” He inhales and exhales a deep, deep breath. “I wanted to forget.”

Stefan reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder— the safest move he can make in public. “Hey, it’s fine,” he says, “I get it. We all have ghosts.”

“Yeah,” Cole breathes out, nodding. “I suppose so.” He looks up to meet Stefan’s eyes, unable to keep the loving smile from spreading across his face. “Suddenly, I need a drink.” He chuckles lightly.

“I’d imagine,” Stefan says, “That, and some ice for your jaw. You’re gonna have a bruise in the morning.” He leans into whisper. “Don’t worry, I’ll kiss it better when we get home.”

Cole’s breath hitches. “You always know what to say,” he mumbles, and he has to restrain himself from doing anything suspect— especially not in broad daylight. “I don’t know whether to be thankful or upset about how easy you make me.” Another chuckle, lower this time.

“I’d say thankful,” Stefan says, and his voice is slightly gruff, “As it is, you’ll definitely be thanking me later.” He grins, then, and runs his hand down Cole’s arm before pulling away. “Anyway, let’s go. We can ask about ice at the bar.”

Cole doesn’t respond for a long moment— he’s aching for Stefan’s touch. Soon, he clears his throat and nods, words not coming until a beat later. “Right,” he says, flashing Stefan a small smile. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The moment Cole and Stefan walk into the bar, Lottie absolutely lights up. “Oh!” He exclaims, waving the two detectives over and completely forgetting the patron he was attending to. “Hey, fellas! Where have you two _been?_ ”

Stefan shoots Lottie a grin. “I guess you could say we got a little too caught up in each other,” he says, and he nudges Cole gently. Cole acknowledges him with a smile, moving to sit on one of the bar stools and pulling one close for Stefan. He takes a seat then, scooting even closer to Cole. “It’s official.”

Lottie stares with wide hazel eyes, looking between them as a smile slowly spreads across his face. “What!? Shut _up,_ you’re joking!” His smile becomes a broad grin when Cole shakes his head. “Oh my God, congratulations! I was wondering when you two would wise up.”

Cole’s about to respond when someone at the end of the bar snorts, raising her hand. “Who’s paying up?” The patron pipes up, and that earns a few laughs.

Shaking his head with a smile on his face, Cole continues. “It was a long time coming,” he says, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “I’m just glad we’re here now.”

“So am I,” Stefan says, grin on his face. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be leaving any time soon. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“You know what?” Cole starts, dropping his hand to intertwine his fingers with Stefan’s. “I am, too. The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is all I’ve ever wanted in life.”

Lottie looks between them with a wistful smile, his hands on his cheeks and his elbows on the bar. “You two give me hope, y’know? That maybe this world is gonna get better for people like us.” He straightens up then, clapping his hands together. “Drinks! Before I get carried away.”

“Same as usual,” Stefan says, and he gives Cole’s hand a squeeze, turning his attention to him, “Unless you want something else.”

Cole hums in thought. “Maybe something sweeter this time,” he says, letting out a small laugh. “Even though I have no idea what that may be.”

“How about something fruity? Y’know, for my fellow fruits.” Lottie gives little finger-guns and a wink, stepping away from the bar and going to prepare their drinks.

Stefan lets out a soft laugh. “This is nice,” he says, and quickly, he leans in to press a kiss to Cole’s temple, “Being open.”

Cole lets his eyes flutter shut, breathing a contented hum. “I can’t believe I didn’t appreciate this place before,” he says, moving just a bit closer to Stefan. “Look around—” He opens his eyes and gestures to the rest of the bar. There’s men with men, women with women— people living how they want to be, living in spite of the hatred and oppression they face every day. “We’re _safe_ here, you know? We can be ourselves.”

“I love it,” Stefan says, “I love _you_. God, I’ve been wanting to say that since we met up and then even more since you got punched.” A pause. “Ice. I almost forgot.”

With a chuckle, Cole’s about to respond— but he’s interrupted by a voice that makes his heart stop and his stomach sink. “Fancy running into you two,” Roy says, all-too-casually, “If I’d known we were going to the same place, I’d have suggested we go together, Cole.”

Cole whips around to face him, wincing at the sudden throb in his jaw. He glances at Stefan for a moment, then back to Roy. He clears his throat. “Roy,” he begins hesitantly, “I didn’t know you were a patron here.”

“On very rare occasions,” Roy says, “I was in the mood for a change in rhythm. Sometimes going to the same place all the time can get stale, y’know?”

Stefan raises his eyebrows. “You like _men_ _?_ ”

Roy scoffs. “I like whoever I can get my hands on,” he says, “What’s it to you?”

Wordlessly, Cole gestures to the rest of the bar— much more sarcastically than he had before. The atmosphere is still overwhelmingly homosexual. “It’s a valid question,” he deadpans.

“I guess,” Roy says, “but again, I like whoever and I’m _also_ allowed to go wherever I please.” A pause, as he leans against the bar. There’s something unreadable in his expression— and something vaguely biting to his tone. “So, _official,_ huh?”

Stefan inhales sharply. “Yeah,” he says, “Official. You got a problem with that?”

Shrugging, Roy hums. “I don’t,” he says, and he directs his next words towards Cole, “Colymer might.” He fixes his attention on Stefan and his expression shifts into something more recognizable: spite. His gaze almost burns. “And I don’t think you want to get caught again, Bekowsky. You got away with it last time, but Donnelly’s not always going to be there to save your ass.” A pause. “Or Leary’s.”

Stefan’s eyes narrow. It’s clear that Roy’s hit a sore subject— and he’s two seconds away from his breaking point, if the way his hand curls into a fist at his side is any indication. “If you know what’s good for you,” he starts, “I’d move along before things get not-so-pretty.”

Cole’s concerned eyes are on Stefan. He opens his mouth to say something— only to be cut off by Roy. “I can take a hint,” he says, holding up his hands defensively, “Just thought I’d deliver a friendly warning.” He offers them a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Have a nice night. Both of you.” With that said, he takes his leave.

It’s then that Lottie comes back, sliding the two men their drinks. “Here you go—” He stops, looking between them with furrowed brows. “Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have left you two alone. What happened?”

Stefan is quick to take his drink and throw it back with little care. “Roy Earle happened.”

Lottie blinks. “ _Roy Earle_ is gay? And he goes _here?_ ” He raises his eyebrows, whistling sharply. “Guess I gotta start losing a few buttons.” His shirt is already unbuttoned to his collarbone, as it usually is.

“Yeah, I’d advise against that,” Stefan says, “You could do better than that ass.”

“Well,” Lottie hums, “He’s an ass with a nice ass.” He gives two little finger-guns before moving away to attend to the other patrons.

Cole inhales deeply, taking a long sip of his drink and turning to Stefan with furrowed brows. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever, his eyes just darting around the other man’s face searchingly. “You and Leary,” he says finally, voice soft. “What was that about?”

Stefan is silent— and as always, that’s never a good sign. He runs a hand down his face and slumps forward against the bar. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, “Not right now. Maybe later, if I think I can stomach it.”

Cole nods, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “Only when you’re ready,” he says, giving a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s finish our drinks and get home.”

Stefan just mumbles a ‘ _yeah_.’

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes after her final performance for the night, there’s a knock on Elsa’s dressing room door.

 _Odd,_ she thinks; all of the men have come and gone by this point, showering her in gifts and kind words as if it’d get them anywhere. Hell, her _stage manager_ already came by— and that meant visits were over _or else._ Giving a low hum, she gathers up her bags and stands up from her vanity, righting the collar of her coat before opening the door.

A woman stands there with a bouquet of flowers— a _girl,_ really. She doesn’t look that much younger, Elsa observes, but she can’t be older than twenty six. Though, the ever-present exhaustion in her face suggests an ancient soul. _Ever-present?_ A smile tugs at Elsa’s lips. _Oh, I know you._ There’s a long moment where she just lets her gaze roam the shorter woman’s form, canting her head to the side. “I remember you,” she starts, watching the woman’s eyes go wide and cheeks turn pink, “from the bar, last Friday.”

“I was afraid that you didn’t,” the woman admits, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She clears her throat, holding the bouquet out towards Elsa. “Accept it. _S'il vous plaît._ ”

Elsa sets down her bags, taking the bouquet in her arms. It’s a gorgeous arrangement— intense red and lovely pink roses, punctuated by fragrant pink stargazer lilies. Grinning wide, Elsa lowers her head to smell the flowers— the scents mingle together perfectly, sweet and pure. There’s a hint of something else, though, that doesn’t escape her. “Did you spray these with perfume?” Elsa asks, looking up to meet the woman’s eyes.

The woman nods, wringing her hands together in front of herself. “I— I did,” she says, flashing Elsa a nervous smile. “Do you like it? I can give you the bottle—”

Elsa lets out a small laugh, gently shaking her head. “I do, but that’s quite alright,” she says, adjusting her hold on the bouquet and picking her bags back up— only for the woman to take them from her grasp to lighten the load. “Thank you,” Elsa says, smiling warmly. “Are you fine carrying those to my car?”

“Anything,” the woman says, and it looks like she wants to continue— but she stops, her blush creeping to her ears. A beat of silence. “Where to?”

Elsa motions for her to follow along, moving past her and into the main room of the club. “I usually leave through the back entrance,” she comments, making her way through to the doors, “but it’s dangerous this time of night.”

“I can understand that,” the woman says, rushing forward to push open the door and hold it for Elsa. Wordlessly, she gestures for her to go.

Elsa offers a dazzling smile, waltzing through and slowing down so she can catch up. “Thank you,” she says, breathing in the cold night air. She stops on the sidewalk, turning to the woman and staring down at her with a spark in her eyes. “I suppose now is the time to ask; what is your name?”

“Marie Boutin,” she says, and she stands there awkwardly. “I— I _would_ shake your hand, but—” She holds up the bags.

Elsa can’t help but laugh at that, free hand going to cup Marie’s face. Her thumb runs across her cheek— she’s warm. “Marie Boutin,” she repeats, tone appreciative. “That explains the French. Might I ask where you’re from?”

For a long moment, Marie just stares. She finds herself leaning into Elsa’s hand, and even though it’s barely noticeable, it doesn’t escape her. Marie swallows hard. “I’m from Bordeaux,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “And— I’m assuming you’re from Germany.”

“Just outside of Luxembourg,” Elsa says, finally letting go of Marie— she finds herself enjoying the way the younger woman seems to ache for her touch. “Now, I would love to continue this conversation in person, but I’m afraid I have to get home.” She’s reaching into her coat, pulling out a small notepad and scribbling down a series of numbers— her phone number. She tears out the page and hands it to Marie. “Call me, won’t you?”

Marie takes the paper with starry eyes and shaky hands, glancing between Elsa and her phone number. “Of course,” she says, her tone almost dreamlike. Quickly, though, she snaps out of it. “Oh! Your bags.” She hands them over to Elsa, exchanging a sweet smile. “I hope you’re not parked too far from here.”

Elsa laughs softly. “Don’t worry,” she says, turning on her heel to leave. She’s just about to disappear behind the corner when she glances over her shoulder. “I’ll be hearing from you, Marie Boutin!” She calls back, and just like that, she’s gone.

Marie inhales sharply— touches her hand to her face, where Elsa’s hand had been. Her cheek is _tingling,_ it’s _warm,_ and by God, she loves it. She loves _everything_ right now— the way the lights from the Blue Room sign are so soft and inviting, the way cars are drifting lazily by in the darkness, the way that couples walk by hand-in-hand…

…and most importantly, the way she finally forgets about Cole.


	11. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an act of pettiness, Courtney discovers the Suburban Redevelopment Fund. He and Jack decide to get help from the one detective they trust. Stefan finds out that Roy has a heart.

The clock on the wall is ticking _incessantly_.

Courtney’s eyes are on the second hand, tapping his fingers on his knee and bouncing his leg as he watches it go ‘round and ‘round. He hates this. God, he _hates_ this. He usually _never_ has to wait so long for Dr. Fontaine— it doesn’t help that he has just about a trillion thoughts running through his head and they show no sign of stopping anytime soon. He just can’t stop thinking about Jack, Jack, _Jack._ Jack and his rare but handsome— no, _attractive_ smile. Jack and his love for _blue,_ and how it always blends well with Courtney’s green. Jack and his irresistible Louisiana accent. Jack and his above-average— _Okay, wait, stop._ Courtney covers his face with his hands, inhaling and exhaling deeply. _Not now. Don’t think about that now._ He can’t stop thinking about it. _Oh, God damn it—_

Lucky for him, or perhaps maybe not-so-lucky, the door swings open then. There’s Fontaine, dressed in his Sunday best even on a Wednesday. “My apologies for being late,” he says, and his sweet-as-molasses accent bleeds through, “I’m afraid I had... other business to attend to. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

Courtney stands up to greet him, opening his mouth to speak— shutting it a moment later. “It’s fine, doctor,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck and shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Um— can we go inside? I have to discuss some things with you in private.”

“Of course,” Fontaine says, and he motions for Courtney to follow him into his office. “It is my job, after all.” With that, they both enter Fontaine’s office, Courtney lagging behind a little to shut the door behind him. Another gesture, this time for Courtney to take a seat, as Fontaine moves to sit behind his desk. “What’s troubling you?”

Courtney sits across from him, and immediately he begins to bounce his leg. “There’s a lot of things, doctor,” he starts, exhaling a sharp sigh and running his hand through his hair. “I— I don’t know. My life keeps… _changing._ ” His eyes are on this room’s clock, now. “Classes are getting harder, the clinic’s more demanding than ever, and now—” He stops, and despite everything, he cracks a smile. “Now I’ve got someone real important back in my life.”

Fontaine leans back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. “Ah,” he says, “And who might that be?”

Courtney’s smile spreads into a grin, and he sits forward with his cheek in his hand and his elbow on the table, still looking at the clock. “We met back in the Marine Corps,” he says, and the amount of love in his voice is almost sickeningly sweet. “I never thought I’d ever— y’know, fall in love before we met. He’s just— so _perfect._ Sure, he has some emotional baggage, but we all do, I guess.” There’s a long silence. It gradually grows stifling, and Courtney’s expression drops, face paling ever-so-slightly. “Uh—” He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Fontaine’s hands are still folded in his lap, but— even the most unobservant person would’ve noticed that they’d _twitched_ at his confession. For a moment, he says nothing— just fixes Courtney with a gaze that makes him feel like he’s under a microscope. There’s mild surprise underneath, but at the surface, it’s intensely analytical and almost dissecting. Overall, it’s _very_ uncomfortable. He hums slightly. “I see,” he says, “Are you positive these are… _romantic_ feelings you’re having?”

Courtney keeps quiet for a long, long time. Soon, he nods. “I’m absolutely positive,” he says, finally looking at Fontaine and holding eye contact. He’s _serious_ about this. “I mean— we’re… _living_ together. I moved in within less than a _week._ ”

“Less than a _week_?” Fontaine repeats, tone incredulous. He’s moved to lean forward slightly and gesture with one of his hands. “Your—” He clears his throat. “— _affliction_ aside, how can you be so sure this infatuation will even last?” A pause, as his eyebrows furrow. “Have you considered that you might change your mind in the future? I’ve seen it in cases like yours.”

“What?” Courtney’s mouth hangs wide open. He tries to speak, but— his voice dies in his throat before any words come out of him. “No, I’ve always been like this,” he says, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. “We were more or less together during the war. Then— we lost contact, yeah, but…” He scoffs. “Doctor, of all people, I thought you’d be understanding.”

Fontaine puts up a hand. “Now, hold on, I’m not saying there’s anything _wrong_ with you,” he says, “I’m just advising you to take a step back to consider all the possibilities before proceeding. It’d be the wise decision.”

Courtney exhales sharply. “ _Right,_ ” he says, and his irritation is barely masked. “Thank you, doctor. Just— it feels like I finally have something going for me.” He runs his hand through his hair again, looking away and crossing his arms. “I don’t know. I’m just twenty-five, what do I know?” There’s a near venomous amount of sarcasm in his tone.

At that, something unreadable crosses Fontaine’s face. He stays quiet for a terribly long, terribly _tense_ moment. Then, he smiles. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss while you’re here?” He asks, “I don’t have any other clients to see this morning, so you have me as long as you need me.” Just as Courtney’s about to go on, the phone rings outside. “Ah. If you’ll just pardon me, I need to attend to that.” Without another word, he moves to leave the room, door all but slamming shut behind him.

Courtney just stares at the door for a long time. Then, he stands up— a terrible, _awful_ idea is brewing in his mind. He decides to go through with it, circling over to the other side of Harlan’s desk and pushing documents aside. _Fuck this._ He inhales and exhales a deep breath, slowing down. He can’t leave too much evidence. _Fuck him._ He sets a stack aside and— stops.

A letter from Leland Monroe, signed and all.

With shaky hands, Courtney picks it up. He knows that name— Jack told him about a _Leland Monroe,_ apparently connected to something called the Suburban Redevelopment Fund. A German woman had brought in some documents related to it; he remembers that from Jack, too. Swallowing hard, Courtney shakes his head to clear his thoughts and begins to skim the letter.

It's all there. Names of all associates, sensitive details about the scam, plans to burn down old homes to make room for a new highway, plans to build matchstick houses and send them up in flames just for the money. The worst part? The plans are already underway. As it turns out, Fontaine’s been using a patient— another name Courtney recognizes.

_Ira Hogeboom._

Setting his jaw, Courtney folds up the letter and carefully places it inside his jacket. He fixes the pile of papers on Fontaine's desk, leaving not a single trace of his interference. He sits back down, and right when he turns his gaze to the clock, the doorknob turns. Fontaine steps back into the room with that _smile_ still in place. “My apologies again,” he says, “It was important business and I had to take it.”

Courtney just nods, standing up and keeping his eyes on the clock. “Yeah, I’ve got to get home,” he says, and when he looks at Harlan, there’s something challenging in his glare. “Y’know, to the _man_ I live with. The _man_ I love and would marry given the chance.” He breathes out a bitter laugh, moving to walk past Fontaine— and that shoulder-check is very deliberate.

Fontaine inhales deeply. Exhales. It’s clear that he’s holding something back— what, there’s no telling. “Of course,” he says, “Will I be seeing you for another session next week?”

“Yeah, sure,” Courtney says, just waving him off and letting the door shut behind him. He wastes no time in leaving the building, stopping once he’s outside and breathing in the fresh air, just to steady himself.

_I have to tell Jack._

 

* * *

 

Courtney practically runs into his and Jack’s apartment, only stopped by the wall. He barrels into it with his side— swears under his breath. “Jack, are you here?” He calls out, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “It’s really, really, _really_ important.”

Jack pokes his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows raised. “What is it?” He says, and he frowns. “I thought you wouldn’t be home for another hour. Did something happen?”

Courtney lets out a nervous laugh— moreso to relieve the stress. “Oh, something very much _did_ happen,” he says, pulling the folded-up letter from his jacket and making his way over to Jack, holding it out for him. “Take a look. It’s everything that we— _you_ need.”

At that, Jack hums and takes the letter from Courtney, unfolding it. He takes a minute to skim over it— facial expression changing with each new paragraph. Once he’s finished, he snaps his gaze up to Courtney. “How exactly did you get this?”

“I stole it,” Courtney says, and— he winces at Jack’s disappointed expression. “Look, Jack, Dr. Fontaine was telling me that— that I was somehow _sick_ for being in love with a man, and that I’d change my mind, and—” He exhales sharply, rubbing at the back of his neck with his eyes steadily on the floor. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

Jack’s expression softens immensely. “Courtney, hey,” he says, and he reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, “None of that is true.” A pause. “And I’m not mad at you. This letter is… actually really helpful. I just _wish_ you hadn’t had to steal it.”

Courtney’s gaze snaps up to meet Jack’s, offering him a relieved smile. “Thank God,” he says, exhaling a soft laugh. “I was having a whole—” He gestures vaguely. “— _argument_ with myself on the way home.” He moves to Jack’s side then, leaning over to read the letter again, this time more in-depth. His smile drops into a frown. “This is… a lot.”

“No kidding,” Jack says, and he’s reading over it again too, “It’s pretty damning evidence, at that. You’d think these assholes would be more careful in their correspondence.” He goes to fold the letter back up and gesture with it. “Question is… what do we do now?”

“I mean—” Courtney looks up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “We can’t turn it into the police; I stole it.” There’s a long silence— all-too-familiar to Jack, when Courtney has an idea but he’s afraid it won’t go over well. He inhales deeply. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

Jack hums. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, “I don’t know how, but we will.”

“We have to go to Phelps,” Courtney blurts out, exhaling sharply and running his hand through his hair. “That feels even worse to say out loud. Jesus.”

Groaning, Jack runs a hand down his face. His expression can only be described as _‘I’d rather die.’_ “You know,” he says, “I hate that you’re right.” He takes pause, then, as if something’s just dawned on him. A shift in his expression— now it very clearly reads _‘fuck.’_ “I _punched_ him when we ran into each other, Courtney. There’s no way he’ll want to talk to us.”

“I know,” Courtney says, holding up his hands defensively, “I know. Just— it seems like the next logical course of action.” He sighs, going silent as he bites his lip in thought and crosses his arms. His gaze rests on Jack’s face, his next words coming carefully. “You might have to talk to him.”

Jack inhales sharply. Exhales. It’s obvious he’s having some sort of internal dilemma. “I might have to talk to him,” he parrots, “Great. Nothing like crawling to an ex for help.”

Courtney reaches up to gingerly rest a hand on Jack’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, “I, uh— I don’t like it as much as you do, if that helps.” He offers an encouraging, if not slightly awkward smile. “He’s a glory hound. He’s likely to say yes even if it’s us.”

With a slight nod, Jack says, “We can _hope_. It’s our only option at this point.” He leans in to give Courtney a quick kiss on the lips. “Tomorrow. We’ll go down there and talk to him tomorrow. I just— I need time to prepare myself.”

Courtney hums, moving closer so he can rest his head on Jack’s chest. “Take as long as you need,” he says, letting his eyes flutter shut as he inhales deeply, taking in all that he can of the taller man. “You punched him, I shot him. I think maybe he needs time too, as much as I hate to say it.”

Jack wraps his arms around Courtney, tugging him even closer and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I hate to say it too, but you’re probably right,” he mumbles, “Guess we’ll just have to put our differences aside for this. It’s… for the greater good.”

Despite everything, Courtney smiles. “Yeah,” he mumbles, his arms moving up to hang around Jack’s neck. “Exactly.” He then buries his face into Jack’s chest, content to stand like that for a while.

Jack is quiet. Then, tone low and gruff, he says, “Know what I want to do right now?”

Courtney’s breath catches in his throat. He pulls away to look up at Jack, eyebrows raised. “I can _guess,_ ” he remarks, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair out of Jack’s face.

A rare grin on his face, Jack moves to sweep Courtney off his feet and carry him to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

Rubbing at his bruised jaw, Cole comes back into the squad room with two mugs of coffee. He sets one— a sweeter cup, with two sugars— in front of Stefan and the other— a black coffee— in front of Roy. “Here you two go,” he says, crossing his arms and all but tapping his foot. “Do I need to get anything else?”

Roy hums, taking a swig of coffee with little regard to how hot it still is. He sets it aside and starts sorting through the pile of folders on the table before him. A frown crosses his face. “Actually, yeah,” he says, “I left some of the case files in my office. Think you could run and get them? They’re on my desk.”

Cole gives him a dead look. “You have legs,” he deadpans, letting out a sharp sigh and shaking his head. “Fine, fine.” He pivots around on his heel, and— he’s gone.

Silence. Nothing but silence. Stefan moves to take a sip of coffee, making an effort to look anywhere _but_ Roy. “So,” he says, and he drags out the ‘o,’ “Cole told me you’re an artist.”

Roy inhales sharply— exhales and reaches out to grab his own mug. Another swig of hot coffee. How he’s capable of that, the world may never know. “Did he?” He says, “Funny. That should’ve stayed between us.”

Stefan shrugs. “You’re not half bad,” he says, “I was actually impressed, which is a feat.”

Roy raises his eyebrows. Briefly, and only for a second at that, something crosses his face. It’s gone, though, and his usual disinterested look is in place once more. “Well,” he starts, “I’m not looking to impress you.”

Despite himself, Stefan laughs. “Oh, come on, you’re still sore about me punching you?”

Roy scoffs. “Of course I am,” he says, “I didn’t _deserve_ it.”

“You kind of did,” Stefan says.

Roy rolls his eyes and goes to take another sip of coffee. It’s already starting to cool. “Okay,” he says, “I guess you’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to admit it.” He goes quiet for a minute, staring into the dark abyss of his mug with furrowed brows. “How are you and Cole doing?” His tone is… sincere. Odd.

Stefan looks surprised. “Uh,” he says, “We’re doing pretty good, I think. It’s been a couple weeks now.”

Roy is quiet again and coming from him, that’s worrying. His grip on the mug handle tightens ever-so-slightly before he goes to take a large gulp of coffee. An excuse to delay speaking, maybe. “That’s great,” he says, “I’m… glad.” He inhales deeply and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “I’m glad.”  
  
Giving him a bewildered look, Stefan says, “You’re _glad?_ ”

Roy clears his throat. “You got hearing issues?” He says, tone dry, “I’ve just… noticed that Cole’s happier now that he’s with you. Better than having him sulk like a cat that’s been left out in the rain.”

“Oh,” Stefan says, and a crooked smile crosses his face, “There’d be a reason for _that._ ”

Roy wrinkles his nose. “Time and a place,” he says. He finishes off his coffee and frowns. “I thought it over and I was… being a real ass the other night.” A pause, as he winces. “I was being a real ass five years ago. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

The smile slips. Stefan’s quiet— _too_ quiet, and it’s completely unnerving. Breathing out a sigh, he rubs at his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then, he drops them to the table and looks at Roy, gaze intense. “You shouldn’t have,” he says, “but I guess you can’t change the past.” He inhales. Exhales. His fingernails are digging into his palms. “I was happy, Roy.”

“I know, Stefan,” Roy says, and his tone is unusually soft, “I know and I’m… sorry.” A laugh, but it’s not quite all there. “I hate that word.”

“It’s nice hearing it from you,” Stefan says. Carefully, cautiously, he reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly fix things, but it’s a start.”

Roy tenses up a little, eyes focused on Stefan’s hand. Breathing out, he says, “It’s a start.”

 

* * *

 

Cole pushes open the door to Roy’s office, letting the door swing shut behind him before he flicks on the light. _Alright, case files._ He crosses the room to sift through the papers on Roy’s desk— not it. With a sigh, he decides to check the drawers next, and he spots a folder in the very first one he looks into. He picks it up, flips it open, and—

This isn’t it either, but… Cole inhales sharply, his eyes scanning the first page. It’s a letter, from a Leland Monroe— he recognizes the name as the face of Elysian Fields. He reads a little further, face paling. Something about a meeting regarding something known as the Suburban Redevelopment Fund, plans to construct and burn down flimsy houses, incoming payments, and most damning of all, a list of all associates the letter was made out to. _Mayor Fletcher Bowron, Chief of Police William Worrell, Donald Sandler, Raymond Gordon, Curtis Benson, Dr. Harlan J. Fontaine, and—_

_Roy Earle._

Cole locks his jaw, taking the letter from its place and folding it up before shoving it into his jacket. “Suburban Redevelopment Fund, huh?” He mumbles, running his hand through his hair and tossing the folder back into the drawer. He opens the next drawer, and he thanks God to see that the folder on their current case is right there. Suddenly, the room feels uncomfortable— he has to get out of here. Taking the folder, he does just that, leaving the room and making sure the door shuts behind him. _Leave as little evidence as possible._

He doesn’t even register himself walking back into the squad room, folder in hand. Wordlessly, he hands it off to Roy, fixing him with an awfully critical gaze. If he notices, he doesn’t show it. “Took you long enough,” Roy says, and he moves to flip it open, scanning the contents inside. Then, he scoffs and tosses it with the rest. “I gotta be honest— this one’s gonna be rough. Too many loose ends.”

Cole only hums— there's something hidden behind it that only Stefan understands. He even moves to stand next to the taller man, glancing up at him as he slides up onto the desk Stefan's leaning against. “Then,” Cole starts, his eyes settling on Roy, “we’ll have to keep looking.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to say something— only to get cut off. It’s Ralph Dunn; he’s made his way to Burglary. “Phelps,” he says, “There’s a, uh— Jack Kelso and Courtney Sheldon here to see you. They say it’s urgent.”

Cole just stares for a moment. He inhales deeply— exhales. No, he very much can't handle Jack's presence right now. “Oh, as if my evening couldn't get any better,” he says dryly, sliding off of the desk and straightening up the cuffs of his shirt. “Lead the way, then.”

Ralph looks like he wants to say something more, but he merely nods and offers a dip of his head in Stefan and Roy’s direction before moving to leave the squad room, Cole in tow. They navigate their way downstairs and to the front desk, and surely enough, the two men Cole had hoped to never see again are standing right there. Courtney spots him first— it’s obvious that he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Ralph glances between the three of them before clearing his throat and saying, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Just like that, he’s gone, leaving Cole alone with the other two. Nothing but tense silence. Jack looks like he wants to say something, but he just fixes Cole with a steely glare. For a moment, his eyes flick down to his bruised jaw, then back up. Finally, he shakes his head and breathes out a sigh. “Cole,” he says, “We need to talk.”

“Because we had _such_ a good conversation last time,” Cole deadpans, gesturing to his jaw. He tries to ignore the snort that gets out of Courtney.

“This has nothing to do with—” A pause, as he wrinkles his nose. “— _us_ , so can you put the petty bullshit aside and hear me out?”

Cole crosses his arms. _Now_ he’s tapping his foot. “Fine. What is it you require of me, your highness?” There’s an unprecedented level of sass behind his words.

Jack merely rolls his eyes; clearly, he’s used to this. He shoots a look at Courtney, then shifts his gaze back to Cole. “Maybe we should talk in private. This... is sensitive information and I don’t trust half the men in this building.”

Cole’s expression goes serious. He glances around— then, he nods, motioning for Jack and Courtney to follow him into one of the interrogation rooms. Once there, he lags behind to shut the door behind him, turning to both of them with one eyebrow raised. “Go ahead.”

“The other day, I had a client come in,” Jack says, “She had some concerns involving an insurance claim and I told her I’d look into it. All my leads brought me to a Leland Monroe and something called the Suburban Redevelopment Fund.” A pause, as he moves to pull the folded-up letter out of his jacket and hold it out to Cole. “This, being one of them. Courtney—” He inhales deeply. “Courtney took this from Harlan Fontaine.”

Cole hums, taking the letter and skimming over it. He doesn’t even get halfway through before he closes his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Funnily enough,” he says, dropping his hand to pull the letter he had taken from Roy’s office out of his jacket, “I found the same letter in my partner’s office.”

At that, Jack raises his eyebrows. “Well, son of a bitch,” he says, “You would go and get your hands in a mess like that, huh?”

Cole stares for a moment. Then— “Oh, no, Stefan isn’t—” He breathes out a small laugh— moreso to relieve stress than anything else. “I’m partnered with a Roy Earle nowadays. Stefan and I are— partners in the other sense of the word.” He clears his throat.

“Roy Earle?” Jack asks, nose wrinkling again. There’s unmistakable disdain in his voice as he continues, “ _That_ corrupt asshole? You work with him?” He shakes his head. “Maybe that’s good though. Means you can keep an eye on him.” He takes another pause. “Which brings me to why we’re here, actually. I was... wondering if you’d be willing to help us out with this. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re the only person here that I trust and...” He trails off.

“I won’t shoot you again,” Courtney chimes in, completely honestly.

“ _Courtney,_ ” Jack deadpans. “Not the time.”

Courtney just gives a half-hearted shrug. Cole, meanwhile, is staring up at the ceiling with a hand to his chin in thought. It’s a long, tense moment— nobody’s moving or speaking, as if the world’s come to a halt. Eventually, Cole nods. “I’ll do it,” he says, holding out his hand for a handshake. “But it isn’t for you.”

For a minute, Jack just stares down at his outstretched hand. He seems hesitant. Then, swallowing hard, he takes Cole’s hand in his own and shakes firmly. “I didn’t think it would be.”

Cole pulls his hand back first, expression unreadable as he moves to hold open the interrogation room door for them to leave. “If that’s all you need, I think this meeting is over. I’m working on a case upstairs.”

“Of course,” Jack says, and his next words are only _slightly_ sarcastic, “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you any longer.” That said, he moves to brush past Cole. “We’ll be in touch. Come on, Courtney.”

Cole watches as Courtney practically hops to catch up with Jack, and just like that, they’re gone. Inhaling and exhaling a deep sigh, he moves to leave the interrogation room and lets the door swing shut behind him. _This is—_ He pauses to run a hand down his face, resting it on his jaw. _—a lot to unpack. Good God._ Shaking his head, he makes his way back upstairs.

He decides to start officially looking into the racket tomorrow.


	12. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan's mother pays a visit. Cole commits himself to commitment. Roy makes a tough decision. Courtney finds Jack awake too late.

It’s early in the morning when the doorbell rings.

Cole looks up from his book, eyebrows furrowed as he moves to fold over the corner of his current page and set it aside. “I’ll get it, Stefan,” he calls towards the kitchen, standing up and making his way over to the door. He hesitates, making sure he’s presentable by straightening the cuffs of his shirt and buttoning back up the first few buttons, before finally unlocking it and pulling it open. “Hello?”

On the other side of the door, there stands Stefan’s mother, Tonia. Cole recognizes her from the various pictures around the apartment— short, hair wrapped in a traditionally patterned scarf, clothed in a modest floral dress. A few more laugh lines here and there, but it’s her for sure. “Oh,” she says, and her voice is slightly accented, “Hello! I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Uh— we haven’t.” Cole swallows hard, shifting his weight to his other foot and glancing over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bekowsky.” He turns back to her then, a polite smile on his face and his hand held out for a handshake. “I’m Cole. I live with your son.”

For a moment, Tonia looks mildly surprised. Then, smile spreading from ear to ear, she moves to take Cole’s hand and shake it enthusiastically. “Well, I _assumed_ I’d be getting a daughter-in-law,” she says slyly, “It’s so wonderful to meet you, dear.”

Cole sputters, his cheeks turning pink. “I— I suppose things work out differently in the end.” He inhales deeply, offering Tonia another smile. It’s more genuine, this time. “I’m— glad you’re accepting, miss.” He moves aside to allow her in, holding open the door.

“Oh, but of course,” Tonia says, brushing past him. “I want nothing but happiness for all of my children. Speaking of, though, where is he? Is he hiding from me?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” Cole says, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

Tutting, Tonia puts her hands on her hips. “Stefan Augustus Bekowsky!” She calls, “Get in here already.”

Something clatters to the floor in the kitchen and then— Stefan comes into the room, flour streaked across his cheek. He offers Tonia a sheepish smile. “Hi, mom,” he says, and he moves to give her a quick hug, “I see you’ve, uh, met Cole.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Tonia says, “I didn’t think you’d ever introduce me to your someone, so I had to take matters into my own hands. Luckily enough, I was going to be passing through on the way to see Milena anyway.” She pauses and moves to wipe at Stefan’s cheek, eyebrows furrowed. “Goodness, Gus, you’re always such a mess.”

Stefan moves away. “Come on, mom,” he says, “I’m not a kid anymore.” He tries to ignore the sheer _amusement_ on Cole’s face.

“Gus, huh?” Cole hums, arms crossed and mischievous grin on display.

Stefan shoots him a look that says _be quiet_. All that gets him is another barely contained grin. Tonia glances over her shoulder at Cole. “It’s his childhood nickname,” she says, and she pats Stefan’s cheek before moving to put her hands on her hips again and turning to fully face Cole. “Now, while I’m here, I have to ask— what are your intentions with my son?”

At that, Cole freezes. His eyes snap to Stefan— back to Tonia. “Well—” He clears his throat, straightening up and pulling at his fingers nervously. “I intend to stay with him. To grow old with him. I’ve— never felt a love so real as this.” He bites down on his tongue before he can add anything about Marie. _She doesn’t need to hear that._

Tonia hums. She seems to be deep in thought— but soon she’s smiling again. It’s bright and sunny; it’s obvious which parent Stefan gets his smile from. “Perfect,” she says, “That’s all I wanted to hear.” She turns to Stefan, eyebrows raised. “You picked a good one, Gus. I’m happy for you.”

Stefan inhales deeply. His cheeks are tinted red. “Thanks, mom,” he says, “I’m happy too.” He clears his throat. “Uh, how long are you staying?”

Tonia waves a hand. “I was only stopping by for a minute,” she says, “Your sister is expecting me. Only going to be a few more weeks before her little one is here.” She pauses. “However, I _will_ be back for a longer visit. We have a lot to talk about— all three of us.” Her smile only grows as she moves to give Cole a quick, but tight hug. Although it catches him off-guard, he manages to hug back all the same. “It was so nice to meet you, though, dear! I look forward to having you around for the holidays.”

Cole lets out a small chuckle. “It was nice to meet you too, Mrs. Bekowsky. I’ll definitely try to convince my family to join yours for the holidays.” He smiles, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “God knows we must learn how to have fun.”

Tonia lets out a laugh of her own. “We’ll just have to teach them how to loosen up,” she says, tone joking. She smiles again before continuing. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone now! I’m sure I’m interrupting your daily routine.” She gives Cole another hug, then moves to hug Stefan and give him a kiss on the cheek. “You take care of each other, alright?”

“Of course, mom,” Stefan says, “Go already. You know how impatient Milena can be— she’s probably waiting.”

“Alright, alright,” Tonia says, laughing. She heads for the door and turns back momentarily. “Don’t forget to call me. You don’t do that nearly enough.” It’s all she has to say before she leaves.

The moment the door shuts behind her, Stefan lets out a relieved sigh. He shakes his head and turns his attention to Cole, eyebrows raised. “I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yourself,” he remarks, and he’s smiling that same bright smile, “I saw that look on your face.”

Cole can’t help but laugh, the grin from earlier returning in full force. “I don’t know, _Gus,_ ” he says, crossing the room to stand in front of Stefan. He reaches up to brush some hair out of his face. “How could you tell?”

Stefan hums and moves to put his hands on Cole’s waist, tugging him closer. He looks down at him through half-lidded eyes. “Very funny,” he says, “You’re lucky I love you so much and happen to _enjoy_ it when you grin like that.”

“Oh, do you, now?” Cole hums, pressing himself even closer. He lets his hand rest on Stefan’s cheek, trailing down to his jaw. “I’d’ve never guessed.” With that, he leans in to press a gentle kiss to Stefan’s lips, pulling away and resting their foreheads together.

Stefan inhales deeply. Exhales. “God,” he says, “I love you _so_ much.”

“I love you, too,” Cole says, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Everything I told her is true, you know. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Stefan says, and he rubs his nose against Cole’s. “‘Til death do we part?”

At that, Cole grins and slowly pulls away. He takes that moment to gaze into Stefan’s eyes, rubbing his cheek gently with his thumb. Wordlessly, he takes a step back, sinking to one knee. “I don’t have a ring,” he starts, chuckling softly and shaking his head. “But— here, give me your hand.”

Eyes wide, Stefan holds out his hand to Cole. “Okay, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Cole says, smiling gently. “I never know.” He takes Stefan’s hand in both of his, not breaking eye contact. “What I _do_ know is: the love I feel for you is real. It grows stronger every day.” He pauses to press a feather-light kiss to Stefan’s knuckles, their eyes locked together as he pulls away. “Stefan Bekowsky, the love of my life, will you—” His voice falters, and he clears his throat. “Will you marry me?”

For a minute, Stefan is quiet. Then, he lets out a watery laugh. “Christ, is that even a question?” He says, “I know we can’t actually, but— yes. Yes, of _course_. I love you so much and I can’t see myself spending the rest of my life with anybody else.”

Cole rises back to his full height, inhaling sharply and trying to blink away the sting in his eyes. “Then— flash forward to the wedding.” He moves to take both of Stefan’s hands in his. “This is where the priest would turn to you and say _‘Stefan Bekowsky, do you take Cole Phelps to be your lawfully wedded husband?’_ ”

Stefan squeezes Cole’s hands. “I do.”

Cole nods, his smile growing larger. “Now he turns to me. He says, _‘Cole Phelps, do you take Stefan Bekowsky to be your lawfully wedded husband?’_ ” He pauses to breathe a short, loving laugh. “And I say _‘I do.’_ ” Then, he leans in, stopping just short of Stefan’s lips. “You may now kiss the groom,” he mumbles, closing the gap in one swift movement.

Stefan pulls his hands away from Cole’s to rest on the small of his back, dipping him ever-so-slightly and deepening the kiss. Cole responds in kind, his hand resting on Stefan’s cheek as he parts his lips to allow more access. At that, Stefan tugs him in closer, their bodies pressed together. A small, pleased noise rises from Cole’s throat, and he even moves to hook one leg around Stefan’s hips.

Hesitantly, Stefan breaks away, pupils blown and breathing heavily. His eyes dart around Cole’s face. “So, does this mean we’re skipping ahead to the wedding night now?”

A devious grin spreads across Cole’s face. “Are you going to carry me like a bride?”

Without another word, Stefan sweeps him up off the ground and carries him to the bedroom, everything else forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Colmyer comes striding into the squad room with a clipboard in his hands, usual cranky expression on his face. “Alright, kids, settle down,” he calls over the commotion, setting his clipboard on the podium. “Phelps and Earle, you’ve got a new case. One of our better-known coke fiends OD'd on morphine…” He rattles off the directions. When he’s done, he gives the two a dismissive look and gestures for the door. “Get to it.”

Cole exhales sharply. “Yes, sir,” he says, standing up and heading for the door, not bothering to wait for Roy. He knows he’ll catch up; he’s always on his heels as is.

And today is no different, it seems. “Jesus, Cole,” Roy says, “Do you ever slow down?”

“I’m running on two whole cups of coffee,” Cole deadpans, glancing down at his hand. He was originally going to check for any shaking, but— the shiny new ring on his finger catches his eye instead. He can’t help but smile, and he has to collect himself before he nearly bumps into another detective.

Roy raises his eyebrows ever-so-slightly. His own eyes fall to Cole’s hand; there’s a slight shift in his expression. “When’d you get that?” He asks.

Cole hums, glancing back at Roy for a moment. “Yesterday, actually,” he says, and he turns his attention forward as he descends the stairs. “It’s— well, I suppose it’s both an engagement ring _and_ a wedding ring.” A passing patrol cop offers a quick _‘congratulations,’_ and Cole just smiles politely and continues on his way.

At that, there’s a twitch in Roy’s cheek— clearly, he’s suppressing _something_. A frown, maybe. “Ah,” he starts, “Congrats, I guess.” He brushes past Cole, hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket. “Come on, we have a case to focus on.”

Cole scoffs, walking a little faster to catch up. It’s not working. Silently, he curses Roy’s long legs. “You’re the one who asked,” he points out, finally coming up next to him. He stares up at Roy with one eyebrow raised, expression analytical and questioning.

Roy inhales sharply. “Doesn’t mean we have to keep talking about it all day,” he says, and he’s moving to pull his pack of cigarettes out, sticking one between his teeth. He wastes no time in lighting it. Just then, they finally make their way out of the station and emerge into the L.A. sunshine and fresh air. “Besides, I said congrats, didn’t I? What more do you want from me?”

Cole purses his lips. He decides to drop it, moving past Roy and heading for his car parked by the sidewalk. “Right,” he mutters, getting in the passenger’s side and pulling out his notebook, flipping to a page filled with notes and annotations all around. Once Roy gets in the driver’s side and turns over the engine, Cole speaks up. “I’m going after Elysian.”

Roy’s hands are curled tightly around the steering wheel, cigarette bit so hard it’s a miracle it didn’t just snap in half. He moves to pull it away with one hand before that can happen. “You can’t be serious,” he says, “ _Elysian?_ Do you have a death wish?”

“Maybe,” Cole responds nonchalantly, giving a small shrug. His eyes haven’t left his notebook. “What does it matter to you?”

Roy takes a long drag from his cigarette in irritation. Blowing out smoke, he says, “It doesn’t. I just want to know what got into that head of yours that’s making you want to be a fool.”

It’s then that Cole looks up at him, his icy blue eyes surprisingly piercing. “I don’t know, does the _Suburban Redevelopment Fund_ ring any bells to you?” His tone is only slightly accusatory.

Roy snaps his gaze to him, eyebrows raised. “How do you know about that?” Cole doesn’t respond, just staring right back with an intensely searching gaze. Realization crosses Roy’s face. “My office. God, I _knew_ I shouldn’t have sent you to get those fucking case files.” He slaps his hand on the steering wheel and frowns deeply. “You didn’t have any right going through my desk, Cole.”

Cole scoffs. “Excuse me?” When Roy opens his mouth to continue, he just barrels on. “ _You_ asked _me_ to retrieve the case files, which were shoved in a _drawer._ Not only that, you left the documents on the Fund in the _very first one_.” His eyes return to the notebook in his hands. “Furthermore—”

“Furthermore nothing,” Roy cuts him off. It’s clear that his irritation is only growing. “Look, I’m not going to sit around and argue the rub with you. You can’t go after Monroe. It’s too risky.”

“It’s a calculated risk,” Cole says simply, flipping a page. “I’m doing it with or without your help. I’m not the only one on the investigation.” He glances up, watching buildings roll by as Roy drives. “If you want to get caught in the crossfire, that’s fine by me.”

Roy scoffs. “You’re _impossible_ ,” he says, “All I’m doing is trying to warn you before you make a huge mistake. Sue me for trying to be _considerate_ —”

Cole cuts him off, staring at him with an incredulous expression. “You’re not being considerate,” he says, and he almost _laughs._ “You’re just trying to cover your ass, _Earle._ ”

“Fine,” Roy says, “Maybe so, but it’s still _your_ funeral, _Phelps_.”

“What, you don’t think I’m leaving out your name, do you?” Cole lets out yet another scoff— more disbelieving than anything else. “When this goes public, _everybody_ involved is going under. That includes you.” Deep down, he feels a little _bad_ for how hard he’s drilling into Roy here. He shakes the thought away as soon as it comes.

For a moment, Roy says nothing. His hands are curled tightly around the steering wheel again— to the point that they’re turning red now. “And who’s to say I don’t know how to take you down with me?” His tone is _dangerously_ cold and all sorts of biting. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know how to play it.”

Silence. Insufferably long silence. “Great,” Cole says, and he’s nearly grinding his teeth, “pull over.”

Roy shoots him a look before doing as asked. “What, you’re going to storm out now?”

“Yes,” Cole replies coolly, and he pushes the door open. “Goodbye.” He _actually_ gets out, slamming the passenger’s door shut and storming down the empty sidewalk.

Roy stares after him for what feels like hours. There’s that voice in the back of his head again and as per usual, it’s screaming about how much of an _idiot_ he is. _Why did you even say that?_ Shaking his head, he moves to get out too and pick up the pace to catch up with Cole. “Hey, I’m not done with you,” he says. Cole simply ignores him, walking even faster. “Come on, Cole. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re making a mistake here?”

“Until Hell freezes over,” Cole calls back. He eventually stops dead in his tracks, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Roy—” He pivots around to face him, eyebrows knitted together in… is that _concern?_ “I don’t want to see you go down because of this.”

Roy scoffs. “Worry about your own damn self for once,” he says, “I’m trying to tell you it’s dangerous and you just—” He breathes out an irritated sigh.”You just won’t give up. How are you _this_ stubborn? It’s almost amazing.”

Cole inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s dangerous, Roy. I’ve thought it over _extensively._ ” He stops, staring down at the ground. “I just— I can’t watch you do this. It’s _wrong_. Do you _know_ what they’re doing? The full extent of it?”

“I can’t tell you that I do,” Roy says, and he takes just the smallest step forward, eyebrows furrowed. His eyes dart around Cole’s face, almost as if he’s searching for… _something_. Anything. He doesn’t know what. “But it’s not like I can back out now. Monroe’s a… _violent_ man when things don’t go his way.”

Cole finds himself moving closer, as well. “You’re not alone,” he says, and— his hands twitch. He wants to reach up and do _something._ What _something_ may be, he doesn’t know. “I know we haven’t exactly been very friendly until recently, but—” He exhales a frustrated sigh. “I want to _help_ you.”

“You can help me by _not_ doing this,” Roy says, “For your own sake.”

“Roy, you don’t understand,” Cole says, and he reaches out to grab Roy by the shoulders, gripping tightly. “There’s already an investigator on the case. Hell, one of Dr. Fontaine’s _patients_ is on the case.” He inhales sharply— exhales, letting go of Roy and taking a step back. _Control yourself._ “I just don’t want you to get caught in the middle of everything.”

Roy opens his mouth to say something— nothing comes out. All of a sudden, the sun’s hitting Cole in _just_ the right way— as it sets, it illuminates the contour of his cheekbones and the scattered freckles that pepper his cheeks, all the while adding warmth to his usually cold blue eyes. But perhaps the most breathtaking thing of all is how the light plays with the blonde of his hair, giving his already heavenly visage a halo.

For a brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, Roy can swear he sees _wings._ He shakes his head and inhales sharply. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, as if he’s being held underwater. “If you’re going to go after Monroe,” he manages to get out, “you’re going to need my help.”

Cole’s eyes go wide. It takes him a few tries, but soon enough he finds his words, his intense stare refusing to leave Roy’s face. “…Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Roy feels like an idiot, but that’s nothing new.

Here he is, sitting by the phone, one hand on the receiver to pick it up and… He can’t bring himself to do it. Squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, he inhales deeply. Exhales. It’s just one phone call. It shouldn’t be _this_ hard.

He has to do this. If not for him, then for Cole. He blinks his eyes open and stares at the phone intensely enough to almost burn a hole in it. Then, finally, he picks up the receiver and dials a number he’d regretfully memorized.

The line clicks— it’s connected. “Leland Monroe speaking,” comes the distinctive voice on the other end.

Roy inhales deeply again. _God, what am I doing?_  “It’s Roy,” he says, “We need to talk about Elysian.”

On the other end, Monroe is quiet. He can be heard flicking open a lighter, presumably lighting a cigar. “What about it, son?”

Roy leans back in his chair and rubs at his forehead. He suddenly has a headache.“Something’s come up,” he says, “I want to pull out of the Fund before things get any messier for me.”

More silence. For a moment, it seems like Monroe’s hung up— but he finally speaks a beat later. “Something’s come up,” he repeats, and there’s an audible drag from his cigar. “Does it have anything to do with that new _partner_ of yours?” There’s something indecipherable in his tone— especially behind the word ‘partner.’

At that, Roy stiffens a bit. Never before has he been more thankful to not be in the same room as Monroe. “He has nothing to do with it,” he says, “Not really. I was just… thinking it over and decided it’d be in my best interest to cut ties with Elysian. I’ve already been in trouble before.”

Monroe lets out a small harrumph in thought, completely disregarding Roy’s excuses. “What’s his name, again? Cole Phelps, something or other?”

“That’s none of your business,” Roy says, and the words come out far more defensive than he intends them to. He clears his throat before continuing. “Not to mention that we’re talking about something completely different. Don’t think you can try and change the subject on me.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You clearly don’t know what you’re doing,” Monroe says, and he takes another audible drag from his cigar. “Think it over a little more. Weigh the pros and cons. I think you’ll find that this is a bad decision, son.”

Roy’s headache is slowly becoming a migraine. He rubs at his forehead again and squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to will it away. “Stop calling me that,” he says, and he can’t help but let a little bit of venom seep into his tone, “I’m not your son.” He takes a minute to cool down. Snapping at Monroe is the last thing he needs to do right now. “The point is I’m allowed to make decisions for myself and my decision is I want out. I’m going to leave whether or not you give me your blessing, so... feel free to argue all you want. I’m not budging.”

Monroe sighs. “I don’t have time for this,” he starts, “so I’m not going to make time for this. Good luck in all of your future endeavors, Earle.” Something isn’t right about the way he seems so… _accepting_ of Roy’s decision, now. It’s unsettling. “Watch your back.” And— there it is. He hangs up.

Briefly, Roy just sits there staring at the phone in his hand. Then, slowly, he sets it back down and exhales a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Something tells him this isn’t going to turn out pretty.

For anyone.

 

* * *

 

Courtney leans against the doorframe of the dining room, knocking gently to get Jack’s attention. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. He pauses to yawn— it’s too late for him. He’s been trying to help Jack with the investigation all night, and he’s finally reaching his breaking point. “You still at it?”

Jack looks up from the papers scattered all over the table, one hand buried in his hair. “Yes,” he says, “At least, I’m _trying_. There’s just so much to go over. So much to take into account.”

Courtney hums, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Don’t you think you need a break? I’ve hardly seen you get up for the past five hours.” Another yawn.

“I don’t know if I have _time_ for a break,” Jack mumbles, and he drops his hand from his head, pushing everything aside. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll go to sleep soon.”

With a small frown, Courtney crosses the room to lean on the table, careful not to disturb any documents. “I’d feel better if you came to bed with me,” he says, reaching out to brush a few strands of hair out of Jack’s face. “You have to take care of yourself.”

Jack looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t, Courtney,” he says, “This is important. More important than me.” He drops his gaze back to everything on the table and breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Just a few more minutes, please. I promise I’ll go to sleep.”

“Will you do it for me?” Courtney asks, quiet and gentle. His hand rests on Jack’s cheek, rubbing soothingly with his thumb.

Jack inhales deeply. Exhales. He glances back up. “...Alright, fine,” he says, and he moves to stand up, “Only for you.” It’s then that he lets out a yawn. “I’m more tired than I thought.”

Courtney lets out a small laugh, standing on his toes to press a kiss to Jack’s cheek. “I don’t know, maybe you should listen to the med student you’re in love with, Jackie,” he says, and— he stops. “Is it okay if I call you that?”

Jack hums and moves to pull Courtney in by the waist, kissing his forehead. “It’s fine with me,” he says, “Sounds nice coming from you.”

Grinning, Courtney leans into Jack’s embrace. “Good,” he mumbles, pulling away and gazing up at him with starry eyes. “Come on. We can cuddle all we want in bed.”

Jack can’t help but smile. “That sounds nice, too.”


	13. Salt of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole and Roy's plan falls through.

It’s late at night when Roy’s phone begins to ring.

Luckily, he’d been tossing and turning for an hour already, so at least it doesn’t wake him up. He’s quick to get up and head into the living room, grabbing the phone. “Roy Earle speaking,” he says, and he rubs at his forehead. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Cole.” On the other end, he exhales sharply. “Sorry for calling so late. There’s— a lot to explain.”

Roy swallows hard. He tries to ignore the way his heart had jumped when Cole spoke. “It’s fine,” he says, “I was still up. Couldn’t sleep. What’s wrong?”

“I have a plan,” Cole says, and he’s speaking quickly. “See— you have a key from Monroe, right? Don’t lie to me; the letter to you mentioned it.”

At that, even though he knows Cole can’t see him, Roy raises an eyebrow. “That’d be correct,” he says, “Cole, I’m almost afraid to ask what you have in mind.”

“We’re breaking in tonight,” Cole says, skipping all of the pleasantries. When Roy doesn’t say anything, he just continues. “What better way to get information than from the source?”

There is one distinct thought in the back of Roy’s head: _I love you_. He shakes it away. Not the time. “Well,” he starts, “Meet you there?”

“Yeah,” Cole says, and— he hesitates. “Thank you for deciding to help. Genuinely.” With that, he hangs up.

Roy inhales sharply. Exhales. His heart is still pounding; that voice is still repeating the words _‘I love you.’_ Shaking his head, he puts the phone down.

Guess he needs to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

Cole stands alone under a streetlight, rubbing his gloved hands together and breathing on them to keep warm. It’s surprisingly _cold_ tonight— it isn’t even October yet, but still the wind chills his bones and nips at his flesh. Feeling antsy, he glances down at his watch. _Oh, God._ Roy’s about five minutes late. _Maybe he gave up. Maybe he fell back asleep. Maybe he called Monroe to warn him about—_

His rapid thoughts are cut off by Roy pulling up. “Sorry,” he says, and he moves to get out, “I didn’t mean to be late.” He adjusts his jacket and fixes Cole with a steady gaze. Even in the dark, his eyes are… so _vivid_. “So, are we doing this?”

Cole nods. “We’re doing this,” he says, reaching out to grab Roy’s arm and pull him closer. He lowers his voice. “Alright, here’s the plan— I’m going to take the key and search Monroe’s office. I shouldn’t take more than five minutes.” He glances around, feeling his nerves spike. “Do you know how to pick a lock?”

Roy laughs quietly. “Are you kidding?” He says, and his gaze dips down farther than it should, “I’ve been picking locks since high school. It’s like riding a bike for me.”

“Good,” Cole says, and— he pauses to chuckle. “You know, in any other circumstance, I’d be scolding you.” He quickly returns to his previous demeanor, serious and rigid. “Anyways, in that case— do you carry, say, a bobby pin around with you? I thought ahead and brought some if you need them.”

“Smart thinking,” Roy says. He glances around for a second before bringing his eyes back to Cole. “Ready?”

Cole locks eyes with Roy, inhaling deeply. Then— he nods. “Ready.”

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing about Cole: when he says he’ll be back in five minutes, he means five minutes.

So, it stands to reason, that the fact he _hasn’t_ come back when he said he would means something is terribly wrong.

Roy’s not an idiot. He knew the potential consequences when they decided to do this. Maybe he is an idiot, though— he hadn’t exactly _planned_ on what to do in the off-chance those consequences did happen. _Cole’s_ the planner and— God knows what’s happened to him. _This is your fault._ Shaking his head and kicking a file cabinet shut, he reaches for the pistol at his waist.

He might be an idiot, but there is at least _one_ thing he knows how to do.

Roy doesn’t get very far before he’s taken out of it by the sound of a car squealing out of the parking lot. _Shit_. Cole. _What have you gotten yourself into now?_ Cursing and swearing all the way into the street, Roy almost doesn’t recognize that he’s in his own car until he’s speeding after whichever bastard has his partner.

Panic. He doesn’t normally panic, but— right now, he very much is. The air around him is suffocating and he shifts to loosen his tie, one hand still on the steering wheel. _This is your fault_. _He’d be fine if you hadn’t said yes_. _He’d be perfectly safe back at home with his—_ Stop. There’s more important things to think about than his jealousy right now. He picks up speed. _I’m sorry_. Maybe he’d be able to choke that out once he’s back in his— safe. Once he’s _safe_.

Right now, Cole is anything but. There’s a sharp stabbing in his skull, a throbbing that rattles throughout his whole body as the car twists and turns with reckless abandon. He can’t see anything in the darkness of the trunk, much less with his eyes fluttering shut and his vision fading out with every bump in the road.

There’s only one thought on his mind right now— he needs Stefan. He wonders if he’ll ever even _see_ him again, his face paling at the thought. _Is this how I die?_ Another sharp turn pushes him up against the door of the trunk, pressing right into the blow to his head. He bites down on his tongue so hard he can taste iron, his eyes stinging. _God, I don’t want to die like this. I want to see him again. I want to—_

The car comes to a sudden screeching halt, the doors slamming and making more pain thunder in Cole’s skull. Before he realizes it, the trunk is thrown open and he’s grabbed by more than two hands, ripped out roughly and tossed to the ground. No— the wood. He’s on a dock.

A gruff voice says something unintelligible, and then he’s plunged into the freezing water.

Cole can’t help but inhale, seawater filling his lungs and making him choke. The water pounds at his ears, but he can still hear the shrieking wail of tires speeding away— and, surprisingly, tires approaching. He flails wildly, coming up for a moment before being swallowed by the waves again and sinking like a stone. His mouth opens to cough, but only more water floods in and overtakes him. One thought strikes fear in his very core: _I’m drowning._

Then something breaks through next to him, and he feels clutching, desperate hands on his shoulders. He’s being dragged to shore before long, his consciousness hanging on by a thread. For a moment, he blacks out— doesn’t hear what they’re saying above him. When he comes to, he sees— he sees…

_Roy._

“God,” Roy breathes out, and he’s got his hands on Cole’s face, smoothing wet hair away almost frantically. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” His tone is soft and if Cole listened closely enough, he might’ve made out the pure panic behind his words.  

Cole opens his mouth to respond— then, he twists over and coughs up a heap of water into the sand, eyes shut tightly. He lets himself fall onto his back, the jolt sending a spike of pain in his head. _I thought I was dying._ He doesn’t realize that wasn’t just a thought; no, he said that.

Roy exhales sharply. His face is wet and never in his life has he been more grateful for rain. Cautiously, gently, he puts his forehead to Cole’s and squeezes his own stinging eyes shut. “You’re not fucking allowed to go and die on me,” he says, “That’s just the facts.”

Much to Roy’s surprise, Cole physically relaxes at the contact. Weakly, his icy hand goes to rest on Roy’s cheek. He’s breathing shallowly— it still sounds like there’s seawater in his lungs. “I’m cold,” he mumbles, almost a little feverishly.

“I can’t imagine,” Roy says, and hesitantly, he pulls back. There’s so many things he wants to say. _I’m sorry. I love you. Please don’t scare me like that ever again._ He bites his tongue and settles for something less incriminating, smoothing Cole’s hair back again. “We should get you somewhere dry.”

“Home,” Cole breathes out, his eyes finally opening fully. They’re glassy and unfocused— he’s barely there. “I want— home.”

For a moment, Roy just stares at him. Then, as carefully as he can, he hefts Cole up off the sand. “Yeah, yeah, I got you,” he says, “Where is home?”

Cole’s head lolls onto Roy’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering. “I don’t—” He stops, a frustrated groan rising from his throat. His next words are quiet, “I don’t know.”

That’s worrying. “Well, you’ll just have to settle for my apartment then,” he says, and he shifts to get a better hold on Cole, “Just— stay with me, okay? I don’t want to lose you.” He could’ve worded that better. _Damn it_. Maybe he can take comfort in the fact that it probably flew right over his head. “Can you hear me, Cole?”

Cole inhales sharply— coughs. “I can hear you,” he murmurs, his hand going to hold onto Roy by his jacket. His grip is shaky, weak. There’s a worrying amount of wetness from the impact to his head— then, another throb of pain quakes through him. A pained noise escapes him, and he holds onto Roy a little tighter. “My head— it’s bad.”

Roy glances down at his shoulder— blood that isn’t his is seeping into the shoulder of his jacket. He inhales sharply. _Panic_. “We’re gonna figure it out, buddy,” he says. _Buddy_ _?_ _Really?_ He shakes his head. “We’re gonna figure it out. Relax.”

Cole just gives a low hum in response, letting his eyes slip shut as he rests his head against Roy. That doesn’t ease Roy’s panic in the least and he almost doesn’t notice that they’ve made it back to his car. With the utmost care that he can manage, he helps Cole into the passenger seat before going around to the other side and getting in.

When had his own hands started trembling? He shakes his head and turns the engine over. “Stay with me,” he says, repeating his words from a moment ago, “Keep talking. I need to know you’re still awake.” He gives Cole one last worried glance before pulling away from the dock. “Tell me something. Anything.”

“I’m here,” Cole says, his words slurred and his voice barely above a whisper. He exhales sharply, half-lidded eyes staring out through the window. They soon reach the streets, lights shining on him as they drive past. There’s a distinct, worrying _blue_ to his flesh, something that Roy couldn’t see before.

Roy tries not to let that panic him. It doesn’t work. Inhaling sharply, he says, “I can see that you’re here, Cole, but I need to know that you’re _here_ and so far you haven’t proven it. Can you tell me my name?”

It takes far too long for Cole to respond. “Roy?” He says, quietly, his tone questioning.

“Okay,” Roy says, “I don’t like that you phrased it as a question, but I’ll take it. What’s _your_ name?”

Cole doesn’t respond, his eyes closing again. Soon enough, he speaks again— “It hurts,” he breathes out, feeling another thundering stab in his skull.

Roy’s grip on his steering wheel tightens to a point where his knuckles are completely white. “I know,” he says, “I know. I’m trying to get you home as fast as I can without killing us both.” He inhales. Exhales. _God_. He hates panicking. “Won’t be much longer. I promise.”

Cole doesn’t look at him— he doesn’t move an inch. His voice is barely audible, his vision fading in and out. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

It takes some effort with Cole in his arms, but somehow, Roy manages to get the door to his apartment open.

Thing is? He’s not sure where to go from here. Cole’s at least breathing a little easier now, but he still looks no better. He kicks the door shut behind them and crosses over to the couch, setting Cole down as gently as possible. He brushes his still-wet hair out of his face and lets his hand linger on his cheek. “You still with me?” He asks, and he racks his brain for a question that he hadn’t asked on the way over, “Tell me what year it is.”

Cole leans into Roy’s hand, his cloudy eyes staring through him. He takes a moment to reply, clearly thinking hard. “It’s after the war,” he mutters— he doesn’t even sound a _little_ confident in his answer.

“Close enough,” Roy says. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls his hand back. It isn’t for long, as Cole just guides his hand back to his face wordlessly and— he’s looking at Roy now. Really, genuinely looking at him, not past him like before. Roy swallows hard. “I kind of need my hand, you know.”

“Please,” the word escapes Cole’s lips in a shallow breath. His hand rests over Roy’s, taking in the much-needed warmth. He inhales shakily. “I’m cold.”

Roy’s heart is beating against his ribcage like a drum— for multiple reasons. “I’m going to try and fix that,” he says, “You gotta let me go, though, okay? Only for a minute. I promise I’ll come back.”

Cole just stares, his eyes fluttering for a moment. He eventually nods, his arm dropping to his side as he lets go. He opens his mouth to speak— but a thundering ache in his head causes him to let out a pained groan. “O— Okay,” he forces out, squeezing his eyes shut.

Roy hesitates again, and then— he heads towards his bedroom. _Fuck_. This is too much. How long had he been fantasizing about a situation like this? Forever, and— this isn’t exactly how he’d imagined it. Panicked, fearful, heart jumping with every breath Cole takes. Well, that last one isn’t anything new, but— whatever. _Whatever_.

Breathing out a groan, he runs his hands back through his hair and stops in front of his closet. Quickly, he changes into something dry before grabbing something he could give Cole. He takes a split second to breathe in. Out. _Relax_. _Relax, relax, relax._ Once he’s at least _slightly_ more composed, he goes back towards the living room. “See?” He says, “Didn’t take that long.”

Cole turns his head to look up at Roy. He doesn’t say anything, just holding out a hand for the clothes. Roy is more than happy to pass them off. “Uh,” he says, “Do you think you can manage?”

“Mhm,” Cole hums. He sits up, trying to shrug his jacket off— but his lack of coordination shows. He’s staring down at nothing, eyebrows furrowed as he struggles.

Roy’s mouth goes dry. _Oh, God, I’m really about to have to do this_. Exhaling a sigh, he reaches out to move Cole’s hands away and— just holds them for a minute. “Is it alright if I help you?” he asks.

Cole says nothing at first, his own hands ice cold against Roy’s. He nods quietly, perfectly fine with keeping it at that, but the one thought running through his mind comes tumbling out. “You’re so warm,” he mumbles, closing his fingers so he’s holding Roy’s hands.

At this rate, Roy’s pretty sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest. _I love you_. He shakes his head. “Let’s get you into dry clothes and I’ll hold your hands as much as you want.” _Why did you say that? You idiot. He’s already got somebody_. “Second thought, not such a good idea.”

Cole just stares, his eyes half-lidded and hazy. He doesn’t let go. “Roy,” he says, his head lolling back to rest on the back of the couch and— he winces as it hits the wound. “Roy, Roy, Roy, Roy. Your name’s Roy.”

“Yes, it is,” Roy says, “And yours is Cole.” He manages to pull his hands out of Cole’s grip and moves to get his jacket off of him. One thing down. He undoes his vest next. “Do you seriously not remember anything other than my name?”

Silently, Cole shakes his head. “I know it’s—” He stops, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes. “...Not wartime.” He goes quiet again.

“1947,” Roy says. He unknots Cole’s tie and then— pauses as his hands go for the buttons of his shirt. _Get over yourself_. Breathing out a sigh, he sets to work. “Nothing else? Just me?”

Cole watches him work, his head rolling to the other side. “You’re Roy,” he repeats, nodding as if to affirm it to himself. “And— you told me it’s 1947. And that I’m Cole.”

Roy glances up at his face for a split second, then back down. Once he’s got all the buttons undone, he pushes Cole’s shirt off of him and tosses it to the side. He swallows hard. _I’m really doing this_. “You’re Cole,” he says, and he inhales deeply before going for Cole’s undershirt, “You’re a detective for the LAPD. We work together.” Undershirt off, he takes the shirt he’d pulled from his closet and helps Cole into it.

“I’m a detective for the LAPD,” Cole repeats, completely slurring half the words, “and we work together.” His eyes flutter closed. “We work together.” He sounds like he’s fading.

For half a second, Roy wants to laugh at the way he pronounces _LAPD,_ but it quickly dies in his throat. “Cole,” he says, “You have to stay with me. Please.” He swears at himself— he hates how desperate he sounds. His eyes dart around— catch the blood on the back of the couch. _Fuck,_ he knew he’d forgotten about something. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “No, _please_. Come on. I need you.”

That said, he jumps up to run in his bathroom and grab the first aid kit. _Please, for the love of_ God, _let there still be some bandages in here._ He doesn’t check before rushing back to Cole’s side. “Say something,” he says, as he opens the box and frowns, “Please.” He produces a roll of gauze and if he was a praying man, he might’ve got down on his knees right then. But since he isn’t— he sets to work on tending to Cole’s head wound instead. “You’re not allowed to die on me. You’re not. I already told you that.”

Cole gives a sudden shudder, wincing at the contact. “I know,” he murmurs, his eyes blinking open. He’s staring up at Roy, his gaze even cloudier than before. “I’m trying, Roy.” Another wince, his eyes screwing shut.

“Please,” Roy finds himself saying again, unable to stop the desperation from slipping in. “You’re probably not even going to remember this later, but I lo—” He stops. Bites his tongue. _Idiot_. “I care about you and I _do_ need you. We’re partners. Maybe even friends.”

Cole goes quiet, just staring at him. “I need you too,” he mumbles, and it’s the most coherent thing he’s said since Roy pulled him out of the sea. He reaches up to grab Roy’s hand— but he lets it fall back to his side, a sudden warmth to his face. The blue is gone. “We’re— we’re partners.”

 _I love you, damn it_. _I love you so much and you don’t even know it_. Roy swallows hard and finishes bandaging Cole’s wound. “We’re partners,” he repeats, and he inhales sharply before leaning his forehead against Cole’s, one hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even fully realize what he’s doing; he’s just too overwhelmed right now. “God. I really thought I was gonna lose you.”

Cole leans into it, his own hand going to rest on Roy’s cheek. For a brief moment, their noses touch— he had moved in a little too much. “I was— drowning,” he says, his voice low, terrified. “I can’t swim. I was _drowning._ ”

For a split second, Roy wonders if he’s dreaming. _Idiot_. “It’s okay,” he says, “You’re okay. You’re right here. You’re safe and alive.” He rubs his thumb against Cole’s cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Cole shifts— their lips almost touch. “Roy’s got me,” he breathes, his eyes slipping shut. “ _You’ve_ got me.”

He can’t breathe. God, he can’t _breathe_. Isn't Cole the one who had almost drowned tonight? “Yeah,” Roy manages to choke out, “That’s right. I’ve got you.” He pulls away then and just looks him in the eye. Staying that close to Cole would only make things that much worse for him. “Are you feeling any warmer?” He hopes so; there’s no way he could handle helping him with his pants without combusting.

Giving a small hum, Cole just leans his face into Roy’s hand, focusing steadily on nothing. That dazed look is back in full force now. He breathes in deeply, the only words on his mind falling out, “I just want to be here with you,” he slurs, finally looking up at Roy and— Christ, his eyes are _piercing_.

“That—” Roy cuts himself off and bites his tongue. _Don’t you dare enjoy the sound of him saying that_. _He’s not yours_. _He never will be_. Inhaling sharply, he continues, “That doesn’t answer my question, Cole.”

Cole hums, his eyebrows furrowing. It's faint, but at least it's something. “What was it?”

“I asked if you were feeling any warmer,” Roy says, and he rubs his thumb against Cole’s cheek again, “Are you? You _look_ like you’re doing better, but—” He cuts himself off and averts his gaze. _Stop getting lost in his eyes_. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Oh,” Cole says, blinking a few times. “I don't— I don't know. Am I?” It's hard to tell— he's always cold, but this is almost too much. At least his skin isn't all that blue anymore.

Roy shrugs his shoulders slightly. He still has his hand on Cole’s face— why hasn’t he moved it away yet? _You know why, you idiot_. “I think you might be a little warmer,” he says, “I don’t know what else I can do to help, though. Again, not a doctor.”

For a long moment, Cole just stares at him. Then— he's leaning in, closing the gap between them in a swift, surprising movement. His lips are like _ice_ against Roy's; frozen, rigid. Roy just sits there in pure shock for a moment. _This is what you wanted, idiot_. He squeezes his eyes shut. _Yeah, but this—_

Roy pushes him back with a sharp gasp of air. “This isn’t right,” he says, “What are you even doing?”

Cole's staring again. His lips are still parted ever-so-slightly, his eyebrows knitted upwards. “I thought that's what we _do_ now,” he says, “I thought— we just kiss now.”

 _You wanted this— why push him away?_ Roy shakes his thoughts away furiously. _Still isn’t right. Not like this._ “I think you’re confused,” he says, “You— we’re— Cole, you _hate_ me and you—” He’s fumbling with his words. “Don’t you have somebody already?” God, saying that out loud hurts ten times worse than just thinking it.

“Happened before,” Cole mutters, his head lolling back onto the couch as he stares through Roy. His eyebrows furrow and a frown tugs at his lips. “Married to Marie. Slept with Hank.” He squeezes his eyes shut at that, reaching up and pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I miss Hank.” His voice breaks.

Roy stares at him slack jawed. No. Seriously, there’s no way Cole is actually crying in front of him right now. The world would stop spinning if he did. But— that break was unmistakable. “Cole—” He bites his tongue and hesitantly reaches out to pull him into a tight hug. His hand ends up on the back of Cole’s head and he’s careful not to touch where he’d been hit. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” He winces. “I hate when people cry.”

Cole buries his face into Roy's shoulder. “I miss him,” he breathes out, and by the way he breathes back in— God, he's really crying right now. His arms wrap weakly around Roy. “It's 1947, and— I still can't believe he's dead.”

Roy bites his tongue again. He’s not sure what to say. Comforting people had never been his strong point— he’d always left the job to somebody else. Not to mention this is _Cole_. That’s just making the situation leagues worse. He pulls back and carefully tilts Cole’s face up by the jaw, pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. “It’s fine,” he says, “You’re fine. Everything’s fine. _Please_ stop crying before I completely lose it.” He slides his hand up onto Cole’s cheek instead. No, he doesn’t like that it’s wet with tears instead of saltwater now.

Cole leans into his hand, inhaling a deep, shaky breath and letting it out equally as unsteadily. His eyes flutter shut. “I'm fine,” he repeats, moreso to himself than to Roy, “everything's fine.” His eyes blink open again, just staring straight ahead. “I don't want to be awake anymore.”

“With how bad of a blow you took to the head, I’m not sure sleep’s an option,” Roy says, “I don’t want you to keel over in the night.”

Cole doesn't say anything at first. “What do we do?” He looks up at Roy now, his normally clear, sharp eyes red and puffy. He looks like a downright wreck, somehow worse than before. Worse than Roy's ever seen him, even.

“Good question,” Roy says, and he finally drops his hand from Cole’s face. _Stop doing that, Jesus_. His eyes dart around the room. “Uh—”

All of a sudden, Cole's slumped over onto him. There's a brief moment of panic within Roy, but it's quickly chased away by the quiet snores coming from Cole. Roy breathes out a sigh and shifts to get more comfortable, absentmindedly moving one arm around Cole.

Looks like he’s stuck here until God knows when.


	14. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole's dreams bring him another memory. Roy just can't catch a break.

Alone, Cole sits in his tent.

His head is in his hands, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. It’s been hours, but gunfire still rings in his ears— incessant, thundering percussion every goddamn day. He didn’t want _this._ He wanted— God, what _did_ he want? Glory? An escape? If he wanted the latter, he could’ve just—

Cole shakes his head vigorously. Don’t think about that. _Anything_ but that.

He’s rudely brought out of his thoughts by an all-too-familiar southern accent. “When were you going to tell me?”

Cole inhales sharply, whipping around to see Jack standing just inside the tent. His heart sinks into his stomach upon seeing the fury in his eyes. Still, he tries to play it off— “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play fucking coy with me, Phelps,” Jack says, and he tosses an envelope in Cole’s lap, “Your _wife_ sends her regards.”

Almost immediately, Cole’s face pales— he grabs the envelope carefully, as if it’s _fire_ to his fingertips to so much as brush it, and he sets it aside. “Look, Jack, I—” He moves to stand up, arms held out defensively. “I can explain.”

Jack scoffs. “There’s nothing _to_ explain,” he says, “Jesus, I wasn't asking for a damn commitment, but it would’ve been nice to know that you were fucking _married_. I don’t want to be some— some—” He huffs and runs a hand down his face. “Fuck. I don’t know. Some _homewrecker_.”

Cole glances around, eyes wide. “Keep your voice _down,_ ” he hisses, “do you want everyone to hear you?” He runs his hand through his hair, biting down on his tongue to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She doesn’t know a thing about it, Jack. And— even if she _does,_ I never—”

“You got kids too, Phelps?” Jack says, “I’m not going to be fucking responsible for tearing a family apart, regardless of whether or not you actually love her.” Cole’s pacing back and forth now, arms crossed. “It’s wrong, Cole, and you know it. Nobody deserves to be treated this way.”

Cole stares down at the ground, stopping dead in his tracks. His eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are wide, darting back and forth as he racks his brain for— _anything._ “I know,” he says, finally, turning to face Jack. “But— I never _knew_ I was—” His voice dies in his throat, his hand going through his hair again. He averts his gaze— he can’t look him in the eye.

“That doesn’t give you an excuse to go and cheat on your wife,” Jack says. He crosses his arms and stares Cole down with a gaze so intense it almost burns. “It’s the coward’s way out. You took a _vow_ when you married her, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes, but—” Cole exhales sharply, running both hands through his hair and resting them on his head. “It was never _real._ It was— it was acting. I was lying. God _—_ ” His hands slide back down to his face, resting over his eyes.

Jack breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Give it a rest,” he says, “Heard the same bullshit excuse from every other dumbass in this unit.” He pauses for an uncomfortably long moment. “Look, I don’t care about myself, but what about Hank? How do you think he’d feel if he found out?”

Cole’s hands drop from his face, and his eyes snap to Jack’s. “Don’t breathe a fucking _word_ of this to him,” he almost snarls. “You _can’t._ ” He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard. His hands go right back to his head, digging into his scalp. “He’s the only good thing in my life. He’s the only thing I _care_ about. I’d already be _dead_ if we weren’t—” He stops right there, going deathly silent.

Jack is just as silent. For a second, he just stands there— continues to stare Cole down with that intense stare. Then, he says, “Cole, do you really want another relationship built on lies?”

Cole seems to freeze, locking up in a way Jack’s never seen before. His eyes flick down— not to him, not to anything. He’s staring _through_ him. His jaw untenses— when did it tense in the first place? “Get out of here.” His tone is cold and dangerous. “Just— get— _away_ — from me. This isn’t happening. This didn’t happen. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Jack says, and for the first time since the conversation started, his voice is soft. He gives Cole one last look— is that _pity?_ —then turns on his heel to leave.

Cole stares after him, his eyes sliding shut. He’s trying to wake up. He can feel it. But— all he sees is darkness, just like that morning on Sugar Loaf Hill. All he can smell is ash and blood, just like that morning on Sugar Loaf Hill. All he can feel is sickening warmth, just like that morning on Sugar Loaf Hill.

All he can see is _red, red, red,_ just like that morning on Sugar Loaf Hill.

His eyes snap open. Roy’s leaning over him, his hands on his shoulders. Never before has he seen the man with such concern on his face. “Cole,” Roy says, and his tone is shockingly gentle, “What’s wrong? You’re trembling.”

Cole just stares up at him, opening his mouth to respond— then his voice dies in his throat. “I— I just had a bad dream,” he says, swallowing hard and moving to sit up. His eyes flick down to Roy’s hands, and deep down he wishes he’d never let go. But then it hits him— not just the dull ache in his head, but the realization that he’s not at home. He inhales sharply. “Roy, where are we?”

“My apartment,” Roy says, “I couldn’t get an actual address out of you last night, so— sorry. Didn’t have a choice.”

Cole blinks, his eyebrows furrowed. He puts a hand to his head, glancing down and— this isn’t his shirt. He takes a deep breath, eyes returning to Roy’s face. “Last night? What happened?”

Roy stares at him for a minute. There’s a brief flash of relief on his face, but it’s gone in an instant. “You don’t remember?” He asks, “Monroe’s goons tried to drown you. Busted you up pretty bad too.” He makes a vague gesture towards Cole’s bandaged head. “As much as I hate admitting when I’m wrong, it’s my fault for agreeing to your plan in the first place.”

“Ah.” Cole squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. There’s a long moment where he just stays like that, before letting his arms drop to his sides and exhaling sharply. “Right,” he says. “That’s why I don’t remember anything past leaving that office.”

Humming slightly, Roy reaches out a hand— quickly pulls it back. He clears his throat before continuing, “I’d imagine, yeah. If you need further proof, you got blood all over my couch and everything.”

There’s a pang of _something_ in Cole’s heart when Roy’s hand is withdrawn. He doesn’t want to know what it is. Pushing the thoughts out of his mind, he twists around to look at the dark red bloodstains. “Good God,” he mumbles, eyebrows furrowed. He breathes in— it’s shaky. Why is it shaky? No— why is _he_ shaky? He clears his throat, hoping Roy won’t notice.

Roy reaches out his hand again and rests it on Cole’s face. This time, he doesn’t pull back. “Hey, you’re fine,” he says, and he rubs his thumb against Cole’s cheek in a gesture of comfort, “You’re alive. Nothing to worry about.” He glances at the stains on the couch. “And I was going to get rid of this ugly old thing anyway.”

Something electrifying runs through Cole’s body as soon as Roy’s fingers brush his cheek, and he hates it. God, he hates it. He hates _himself_ for not even thinking about Stefan until now, a sudden rush of guilt and shame making his cheeks heat up. _I can’t do this again._ “That’s— yes,” he says lamely, cursing himself for doing nothing to move away. “Well. I’m glad it was already one foot out the door.” He pauses. “Leg. Couch leg. No, that’s— nevermind.”

Roy is staring at him again. Then— he snorts. Completely breaks down into laughter, even. He leans his forehead against Cole’s to stay balanced. Once he’s a little more composed, he manages to get out, “That’s— _Christ,_ you’re _almost_ adorable.”

There’s something… _nice_ about Roy’s laugh. Cole never gave it much thought until now, just passing admiration, but— the way his lips curl into a grin before it happens, the way he almost cackles… _God. No. Stop it. You can’t do this. You_ can’t _do this again._ He finds himself staring at Roy’s lips, but it’s only for a moment. His gaze snaps back up to his eyes. “I must still be out of it,” he says, eyebrows furrowing. “Did you get a good look at any of the attackers?”

Roy pulls away from Cole, smile dropping and eyebrows furrowing in turn. “No,” he says, “I wasn't fast enough, so I didn’t get a good look at whoever it was. I’m assuming Monroe’s goons, of course, but— I don’t know, I’d imagine you have a few enemies lying around.” His tone is joking, but his expression stays serious. “Golden boy and all that.”

 _Please laugh again._ Cole bites down hard on his tongue to keep himself from saying it out loud. “Right,” he says absentmindedly, leaning his cheek into Roy’s hand without noticing. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Guy McAfee’s boys were still sore about Stefan’s little pep talk.” He pauses, mentally kicking himself for mentioning Stefan and thanking God at the same time. Swallowing hard, he continues. “Speaking of— did you let him know I’m fine?”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder and stayed there for most of the night,” Roy says, and he finally pulls his hand away from Cole’s face, “But I got up this morning and called him, yes. We argued. I don’t think we ever _don’t_ argue, but— everything’s fine. We worked it out.”

Cole lets out a low hum. “Okay,” he says, nodding slowly. He shifts to sit up a little more— then, he groans, putting a hand to his head and sucking in air through his teeth. “ _Fuck,_ ” he mutters, unusually harsh.

Roy’s gaze is on him again— it’s intense, unyielding. “Did you just say _fuck?_ ”

Cole stops, pursing his lips. “I— yes. Oops.” His tone is dry, giving small, sarcastic— are those _jazz hands?_ —for emphasis.

Roy’s eyes flick down to Cole’s lips— only for a split second, but even that was far too long. He brings his gaze back up to Cole’s eyes and snorts slightly. More laughter escapes. “ _Almost_ adorable.”

Cole wishes he didn’t notice where Roy’s eyes had gone. He just nods for a moment, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of his face. “I suppose so,” he says, his stiff and rigid demeanor returning. “I—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I… live with Stefan,” he starts, “and I was wondering if you could drive me home. I don’t think I’m in the best state of mind as of right now.”

Roy is quiet. “Yeah, I know,” he says, and he moves to stand up, “It’s no problem. Really. Grab your things and we can go.”

Cole hums, getting up and going to gather his things. He stops, eyebrows furrowed. “You _know?_ ” He straightens back up, clutching his bloodied clothes to his chest. Then— it hits him. “Ah— right. That night at the _Latin._ ” When Roy doesn’t say anything in response, he continues. “I’m… glad you aren’t bothered by it.” He’s very, _very_ happy that his thoughts have gone back to Stefan. God, even the mental image of that man’s face fills him with joy. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“I _suppose_ you should, yes,” Roy says, and he claps a hand on Cole’s back, “Saved your fucking ass and kept you alive to see Bekowsky another day. I deserve all the thanks in the world.” It’s probably a comfort that he’s back to his normal self— not as weirdly soft and gentle. “From both you _and_ him.”

Cole raises his eyebrows for a moment, shaking his head with a smile on his face. “Tell me when he socks you in the jaw next,” he says, chuckling lowly and heading for the door with or without Roy. “I’ll have to give him proper congratulations this time.”

Roy stares after him for a moment, completely slack jawed. “Hey, just because I’m okay with it doesn’t mean you can just say those things in front of me! _Christ,_ Cole, decency! _Decency!_ ”

Surprisingly, Cole actually laughs. “As if you don’t say more and _worse_ every single day,” he says, waiting in the doorway with an uncharacteristic smirk on his face. He’s made so many changes since he started living with Stefan— it’s hard to believe that he used to be completely serious all the time. “I’m waiting.”

Roy’s gaze hasn’t left him for a second— is he almost starry-eyed? He breathes out a snort. “Keep your pants on,” he says, “I’m coming.”

 

* * *

 

Cole’s digging in his pockets for something, eyebrows furrowed as he focuses on the door. “Did they—” He stops, letting out a frustrated sigh, and deciding to just knock on the door. “They _did,_ ” he mutters.

Roy raises his eyebrows. “They did what?”

“Took the key,” Cole says, fixing his jacket. Why is he trying to be _presentable?_ He lives with Stefan, for Christ’s sake, and they haven’t seen each other in over twenty hours. Wait— that last one’s probably why. “Just— going to have to get the lock remade, it’s fine.”

Roy watches him for a moment— then averts his gaze. “Maybe,” he says. He goes unusually quiet. Shuffles his feet. Finally, he speaks up again, “Should I go? I’d rather not get punched in the face again this early in the morning.”

Cole blinks, tilting his head to one side in thought. “I’ll— stop him this time. I was joking earlier.” He turns back to the door, reaching up to run a hand through his hair— but he stops, winces. He forgot about the head wound. There’s a long bout of silence. “...I hope he’s _home_ _,_ ” he says tentatively.

As if on cue, the lock clicks and the door opens to reveal a very distraught looking Stefan. His hair is disheveled, his shirt is haphazardly buttoned, and it’s clear he hasn’t slept from the dark circles under his eyes. Immediately, and without a single word, he darts forward to sweep Cole up in his arms and spin him around. Then, he gently places him back down on the ground, arms still wrapped around him tightly. “God, I thought I almost lost you again,” Stefan mumbles, face buried in Cole’s shoulder, “I missed you so much.”

Cole’s hold on Stefan is tight, as if they haven’t seen each other in years. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I know I promised to be more careful, and— I’m sorry.” He buries his own face into Stefan’s shoulder, hugging a little tighter. “I love you. I’m here, I’m alive, and _I love you._ ”

Stefan inhales sharply, pulling away to look Cole in the face with tears in his eyes. He lets out a shaky laugh then and moves a hand up to his cheek, rubbing his thumb against it. “I love you too,” he says, almost breathlessly, “So goddamn much.” He leans his forehead against Cole’s. “You scared the shit out of me. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Cole breathes out a relieved laugh, then suddenly winces. “Careful, careful,” he says, voice soft. “My head’s healing.” He can’t help but smile, though, his eyes fluttering shut. “God, I’m so happy I get to _see_ you again.” It’s then that he starts to lean in, and—

The moment is ultimately ruined by Roy clearing his throat. “Hi,” he says, and he offers a somehow sarcastic wave, “Still here.”

At that, Stefan’s gaze snaps from Cole to Roy. And— gone is the loving expression. It’s been fully replaced by one of pure, unadulterated _rage_. He lets go of Cole then and advances forward. “ _You,_ ” he growls, and he’s grabbing Roy by the collar, “This is _your_ fault.”

Roy tenses up. “I thought we talked this out over the phone.”

Stefan just glares at him. In one swift moment, he lifts Roy clear off the ground and slams him against the wall, eyes narrowed. “I changed my mind,” he hisses, and his grip on Roy’s collar tightens, “I’m mad at you again. What were you fucking _thinking_ putting him in danger like that?”

When his head hits the wall, Roy lets out a sharp gasp. Yeah, that hurts. “Jesus, it’s not like I _knew_ they were going to kidnap him!”

Stefan’s about to say something else when Cole cuts in. “Stefan, wait—” He stops, pursing his lips. “He may have gotten me into that mess, but I would have died without his help.” There’s a long, tense silence. “I— I admit that I don’t remember _how_ he helped me, but— he did.”

That doesn’t help Roy’s case in the least. Stefan’s pushing him up against the wall harder now. “He doesn’t _remember_ what _happened?_ ” His tone is dangerously low. “I have half a mind to murder you right now, Earle.”

“Hey, look, it’s alright!” Roy exclaims, and he bites down on his tongue for a second. “He almost drowned! I kept that from happening!”

While those words might’ve sounded like they’d work in Roy’s head, all they do is dig him a deeper grave. “He almost drowned,” Stefan repeats, and there’s barely-disguised venom in his tone, “He almost _drowned_. God, he can’t _swim!_ What if you hadn’t gotten there in time? What then, huh? I don’t think I need to fucking spell it out for you.”

Roy inhales. Exhales. It’s a little hard to do right now for multiple reasons. “Well, he _didn’t,_ ” he says, “He’s alive! Breathing and everything!” Another sharp gasp, as a sudden pain radiates through the back of his head. “Fuck, Bekowsky, just let _go_ of me already!”

For a long, terribly tense moment, Stefan stares at him. Then, with a scoff, he drops Roy and steps back. “You’re not worth it,” he says, “Consider yourself lucky. I’m in _just_ the right mood to bash somebody’s face in.”

Cole carefully puts a hand on Stefan’s shoulder, giving a soft squeeze to try and ground him. “Stefan,” he says, keeping his tone gentle. “Do you want to go inside?” After that, he glances down at Roy with a deeply apologetic look on his face.

Stefan takes a moment to steady his breathing. “Yeah,” he says, and he runs a hand down his face, “That’d— probably be a good idea. I’m exhausted.”

Cole just nods, taking Stefan inside without a word. The door swings shut behind them. Roy stares at it in silence, eyes wide and pupils blown. There’s only one clear thought in his head right now: _oh no_.

All of a sudden, there’s a thump against the door.

The _‘oh no’_ intensifies. Roy takes that as a cue to scramble up off the floor and stumble towards the elevator, cursing himself all the while.

_God, why are you like this?_

 

* * *

 

None of this adds up.

Jack is getting increasingly frustrated by the minute and it doesn’t help that Courtney isn't here to ease his nerves; he’d left for class a while back with a kiss to his cheek and a quick _I love you_. Raking his fingers through his hair and further disheveling it, he breathes out a sigh. He needs a break, but there isn’t really anything else he could do right now, so he keeps his attention focused on all the evidence before him.

...At least, until the phone starts ringing. Jack’s quick to push everything aside and stand up, making his way towards it. It only rings one more time before he picks it up. “This is Jack Kelso,” he says, “Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Cole Phelps,” comes a familiar voice on the other side. He goes quiet and clears his throat. “Just thought I should update you on the sit— _situation._ ” He has a surprisingly hard time saying that last word— he sounds out of it in general.

Jack hums and shifts to lean against the wall with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, arms crossed. “Is everything alright?” He asks, and he _hates_ that even an _inkling_ of concern seeps into his voice, “You sound worse for wear.”

Cole inhales and exhales a deep breath. “Probably has something to do with getting my head bashed in.” There’s a pause, possibly in thought. “I got Roy Earle to join our investigation. I used the key he was provided by Monroe to break into the Elysian offices, but— I didn’t get far.”

At that, Jack’s heart jumps into his throat. He hates that even more than the concern he’d shown. “You didn’t get far,” he echoes, “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t go alone like some kind of idiot.”

Despite himself, Cole can be heard chuckling on the other end of the line. “I went alone like some kind of idiot,” he says, and he’s shifting. “The last thing I remember is being hit in the head. Fragments are coming back, but— it’s… difficult. And confusing.” His next words are dry. “Imagine waking up in your semi-corrupt-yet-trying-his-best partner’s apartment with no recollection of the night before.”

While Jack wouldn’t admit this under threat of death, Cole’s laugh calms him just a little. It’s only for a minute, though, as the concern comes rushing back in waves and pulls him under. He inhales sharply. Exhales. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. “So, what story did he give you, then?”

Cole hums. “Apparently, Monroe’s goons tried to drown me. If it weren’t for him, I’d…” He trails off, and he audibly shudders. “I still can’t swim.”

“Didn’t I tell you that you needed to work on that when we—” Jack stops and bites his tongue. _We_. That’s a dangerous word. “Nevermind, but clearly, you need the lessons.” It’s a sad attempt at lightening the mood, but he’s never been great at that to begin with. “You’re doing okay, though, right? I don’t have to worry about you keeling over in the night or anything?”

“I, uh—” Cole exhales a short, nervous laugh. “I _think_ I’m doing okay. I—” His words come to a sudden halt, and Jack can almost hear the cogs turning in his mind. “…I think Roy was _crying_ when he pulled me out of the water. I don’t know, it was raining. Maybe that’s just it.”

The wheels are turning in Jack’s own mind now. _Cole_ _,_ _you idiot_. How is it that somebody could have such a steady head on their shoulders and _still_ not recognize something as simple as another person’s feelings? He wants to laugh, almost, but— he’d been on the other end of that once before. “Maybe,” he says, finally, “I don’t know. Hopefully, you’ll remember more as time goes on— it _would_ be helpful if you could think of any faces you might’ve saw that night. We don’t know what Monroe’s intentions for the attack were; they might strike again.”

There's another hum, and a long contemplative silence comes after. “You're right,” Cole says finally, “I'll try to remember more as the day goes on.” A beat of more silence passes. “Listen, I'll call you back if anything substantial comes up. Don't keep me in the dark either, Jack.”

Jack’s mouth is suddenly dry. “Right,” he says, “I won’t.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute and rubs at his forehead. “I’m going to let you go, but— Cole, try to stay out of trouble. If not for my sake, then for yours.” A pause, as he bites his tongue so hard that he swears he can taste the metallic tang of blood. _Don’t be soft_. _Don’t show him you still care._ “We’d all be lost without you.” _Damn it_.

Cole’s quiet. For a moment, Jack thinks he might’ve hung up, but then— “Thank you,” he says, tone surprisingly sincere. “You don’t know how much that means to me.” Clearing his throat, Cole continues before Jack can think too hard about it. “I’ll talk to you later, Jack. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

As he sets the phone down, Jack wants to swear. He wants to yell. He halfway wants to cry, even, and he hates that the most. He can’t cry, not now, not over Cole of all people. His heart is pounding in his chest, his head is reeling, his eyes _sting_.

With a frustrated noise, he hits his head back against the wall and tries to blink back the tears that are threatening to rise to the surface.

_You just couldn’t leave things in the past, could you, Jack?_

 

* * *

 

There is one man and one man only on Roy’s mind as he makes his way through the station: Cole.

God, he still feels _guilty_. Roy hates a lot of things, but if there’s anything he hates the most, it’s guilt. If he’d _just_ been paying attention, if he’d _just_ been quicker… He shakes his head. None of that matters. What matters is that Cole is alive and safe and… probably in Stefan’s arms right now. _Idiot_. _You’re an idiot_.

Maybe he’d call and check on him when he got home. Maybe he wouldn’t. It’d probably seem a little suspect, but… He’s worried. He needs to hear his voice. He needs further confirmation that he’s okay.

Roy’s so deep in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice he’s about to bump into somebody.

No— not just somebody. _Leary_.

The shorter man’s expression immediately changes to one of hatred, maybe even disgust. “Earle,” he says, and he has no qualms with letting it seep into his voice, “just the man I was looking for. My office. Now.” He’s already walking past him without waiting for a response.

Roy almost wants to scoff. “No, sorry, I don’t have time for that,” he says, “Got places to go, people to see.” That’s something of a lie; really, he’s just impatient to get to where he can call Cole. “If it’s really that important, you can tell me here, but make it quick.”

Leary sets his jaw, clenching his fist. “Alright,” he says, “then we’ll just do this here.” In a flash, he’s pinning Roy to the wall with his arm over his throat, glaring up at him with deep blue eyes full of sheer, unadulterated rage. “I see the way you look at Stefan,” he starts, barely-contained fury in his voice.

For a minute, Roy is taken by complete surprise. _Seriously, why does this keep happening to me?_ He shakes that thought away. There were more important things to focus on right now. “What do you mean?” He chokes out, “Far as I know, I’m not looking at him in any sort of way.”

“Don’t play dumb, _Earle,_ ” Leary growls, managing to lean up so his face is mere inches from Roy’s. It’s then that Roy can see how _angry_ he is— even the tips of his ears are red. “Consider this a warning. If you hurt him any more than you already have—” His voice drops lower. “I will snap your _fucking_ neck without a second thought.”

Roy swallows hard. It isn’t the first time he’s been on the receiving end of Leary’s anger, but… something about this is different. Personal. “I don’t plan on doing _anything_ with him,” he says, “so you can just let me go, alright? I get the message.”

Leary just glares at him for a moment— then, he’s releasing his hold on Roy, taking a step back and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Good talk,” he says, patting Roy on the shoulder and heading off on his way.

Roy just stares after him, breathing in a sharp intake of air and absentmindedly rubbing at where his arm had been with a wince. _Jesus Christ._ Somebody needs to put that man on a leash before he bites someone’s head off and gets sent to the pound. What had that even been about? _I see the way you look at Stefan_. That didn’t make any sense to him, no, not in the least. He racks his brain for any possible explanation for the other man’s words. Then, he comes to a single conclusion: Leary thinks he’s in love with Stefan. He almost wants to laugh and he would’ve if his throat wasn't still sore. Him being in love with _Stefan?_ The mere notion of that is just flat out ridiculous.

...Except the more Roy thinks about it, the more he realizes that maybe it isn't.

 _Shit, Leary’s going to kill me after all_.


	15. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy comes to a startling revelation. Leary deals with grief. Stefan calms down. An old friend of Cole's makes a return.

Roy is in love with both of them.

He’s in love with Cole’s smile. He’s in love with Stefan’s laugh. He’s in love with the way _they_ look at _each other,_ even, and that’s probably the worst of all. All it does is make him feel like an idiot— more so than usual. Roy could have anybody he wanted, man or woman or otherwise, and he just had to fall for the two men who were already in love with one another. They would never be his to have and to hold, to come home to after a long day of work; Cole belongs to Stefan, and Stefan belongs to Cole, and Roy belongs to nobody, and maybe that’s just how it’s meant to be.

At this point, he’s not even sure he actually deserves love. Why would he? He’s done too many awful things in his life, hurt too many people. He especially doesn’t deserve _them_. They were made for each other— two perfect, interlocking puzzle pieces, and he doesn’t fit into that equation, no matter how badly he wants to. His heart _aches_ whenever they’re in the same room as him; it squeezes when he sees them brush hands under the table when they think nobody’s watching or whisper things meant only for each other.

Roy wants that for himself. He wants Stefan’s hand in his, fingers laced and grip so tight that he feels he may never let go. He wants Cole to lean over and say what he’s always wanted to hear him say, tone low and rough and just for him. He wants to lie with them in the dark; he wants lingering kisses and tangled limbs and words of devotion falling from their lips. Agony. It’s pure agony how _badly_ he wants— no, _needs_ the two of them.

He completely blames himself. He’s an idiot; he can finally admit that without hesitation. Only an _idiot_ would fall this far, this _hard_. He can’t even remember the last time he felt something this _strongly_ for anybody.

No, he can, actually. He hadn’t thought about Morris in a while, but— considering he’d crossed the ocean with a gun on his back and dogtags around his neck just to stay with him? That said a lot and it was the perfect comparison to how he was feeling now; if Cole or Stefan asked, he’d follow them to the ends of the Earth, just as he had for Morris once.

But who is he kidding? They would never give him the time of day; they have each other and that’s enough for them.

He’s fine with that. He’s _fine_ with that. He’s totally, completely, utterly fine with that.

Thing is?

He’s really not.

 

* * *

 

Leary never expected to be standing over his lover’s headstone.

But here he is, drenched in rain with his hands shoved in his pockets and his hat shielding his eyes. His feet stay planted in the mud, even with his mind screaming at him to leave— no, not just screaming. _Begging_. The rain’s seeping into his bones, providing an all-too-grounding chill, the exact opposite of what he needs right now. He needs to forget he’s here, forget he’s alive. He needs to forget everything, up to his own goddamn name. He can’t handle this alone— he can’t handle _anything_ alone.

 _Alone._ That’s what he’ll always be, he supposes. Before this, there was Stefan— that didn’t even last two months. A month and two weeks, then… gone. It all crumbled beneath him, slipped between his fingers like sand. As much as he wants to tell himself his fling with Stefan was just that, a _fling,_ he can’t. It feels like a spit in the face. Not just to himself, but to Stefan as well.

Leary squeezes his eyes shut. _You stupid bastard._ He curses himself to Hell and back for thinking about Stefan when the grave in front of him is etched with the same name that left his lips every night for the past two years. God, what is _wrong_ with him? It’s been _five years_ since he and Stefan were together, and it lasted less than any of his other relationships. A month and two weeks of— of— _nothing._ Nothing important, he swears to himself. Nothing that mattered. Nothing, nothing, nothing—

He inhales shakily, exhaling in a broken sob. He doesn’t know when he started crying, and he doesn’t like it. Not in the slightest.

“Gordon.”

He’s brought out of it by Lottie’s voice behind him, then a comforting hand on his shoulder. He _wants_ to jump at the touch, but— it’s just what he needs. Leary glances back to look at him, not bothering to wipe away the tears on his face. “What?” The word comes out more hollow than he intended it to.

“I just wanted to tell you—” Lottie stops, averting his gaze and shifting from foot to foot, his hat hanging from his other hand. “Drinks are free tonight. Just for you.” He looks back up to meet Leary’s gaze, and judging by how red and puffy his eyes are, he’s been crying too. “I think you need it.”

Leary just stares for what feels like an eternity, then— he barks out an empty, short laugh, reaching out and ruffling Lottie’s rain-wet hair. “Thanks, kid,” he says, “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry,” Lottie says, a small smile crossing his face as Leary pulls his hand away, “it’s on the house.” He moves to place his hat back upon his head. “I’ll get the car ready.”

Leary just nods, watching the boy disappear into the— no, no crowd. He’s used to seeing crowds at funerals, but… this time, it’s only him and Lottie. He exhales sharply, returning his attention to the headstone in front of him.

_I’m sorry._

 

* * *

 

In the very back of the _Latin,_ Leary sits by himself, illuminated only by a dim light hanging above his head.

The side of his face rests on his arm, which rests on the table, his other hand tracing the grain of the wood. He’s pushed his drink aside, having had enough for now— he’s about four glasses of scotch in. The entire time he’s been here, he’s been thinking about Stefan and _only_ Stefan, images swirling and muddling in his mind. He has to remind himself that _no,_ he didn’t hold Stefan as he bled out in his arms. _No,_ he didn’t sit by him in the hospital. _No,_ Stefan wasn’t ripped away from him as doctors and nurses frantically wheeled his bed into surgery.

He doesn’t notice Lottie coming up to the table _or_ taking the seat across from him, only registering his presence when he speaks. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice soft, “how are you doing?”

Leary barely moves from his spot, eyebrows furrowing and eyes stinging. “Bad,” he manages to get out, and he shifts to bury his face in his arm. “I hate myself, Lots.”

“You shouldn’t,” Lottie says simply, reaching out to rest a hand on Leary’s arm. That gets him to look up— he immediately calms down upon seeing the boy’s face. “None of what happened was your fault, Gordon. You should know that.”

Leary exhales deeply, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “I know,” he mumbles. “I _know._ I just— God, it’s not even _him._ ”

Lottie blinks, eyes widening. “You’re not upset about losing Keith?”

“I am,” Leary says, covering his face with his hands. He doesn’t move, just breathing as evenly as he can. “I can’t stop thinking about— about Stefan.” It feels a thousand times worse to say out loud. He grits his teeth.

“Oh,” Lottie says, wringing his hands nervously. Even though Leary can’t see him, he can just picture the way the tips of his ears tinge pink when he’s embarrassed. “Um— is there anything I can do to help?”

Leary shakes his head, dropping his hands from his face and instead resting his cheek in his hand. “Don’t know,” he says, not looking at Lottie. “Do you have any smokes? I have my lighter with me.”

Lottie only nods, reaching into his front pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarette. He wordlessly offers one to Leary, who takes it and sticks it between his teeth before lighting it and taking a long, long drag. Lottie just watches him for a moment, frowning softly at the too-large cloud of smoke he breathes out. “Careful,” he warns, reaching out to still Leary with a hand to his arm. “You want your lungs to go out with your liver?”

Leary breathes a laugh, empty, like the one he let out at graveyard. “Hell, what if I do?” He takes another generous drag, smoke puffing out in a series of light coughs. He takes his cigarette between two fingers, resting his hand on the table. “You can’t stop me.”

“No, but I can advise against it,” Lottie says, leaning back and crossing his arms as he looks Leary up and down. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Gordie. You’ve never been this broken up about something.”

Leary’s eyes fall to his half-empty glass of scotch. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says, grabbing it before Lottie can stop him and downing it in one gulp. It burns his throat and makes his eyes sting, but it’s a good change of pace— finally, the alcohol’s starting to affect him. He sets the now-empty glass down, letting out another short laugh. This time, it’s bitter. “I’m not worth it.”

The sheer weight of concern in Lottie’s eyes could sink a ship. He rests his hand over Leary’s, his gaze fixed on his face. “You are,” he says, quiet and gentle. “You’re my _best friend,_ Gordon.” He stops, swallowing hard. “You’re— probably my only friend.” He withdraws his hand, then, finally looking away. “You matter more than you know.”

Leary doesn’t say anything for a long while, just absorbing Lottie’s words, drinking them in. He inhales and exhales a deep breath, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Fine,” he says, “you win.” He closes his eyes and drags his hand down his face. “I just— I _miss_ him, Lots. I’ve missed him for five years.”

Lottie frowns. “I know,” he says. His gaze drops to his lap, where he’s wringing his hands again as he bites his lip in thought. “Earle had no right doing what he did. You two were happy.”

“We were _happy,_ ” Leary repeats, letting out another bitter laugh and shaking his head. “I held that bastard against a wall, yesterday. It felt _amazing._ ”

Lottie smiles at that, bright and encouraging. “I’m glad,” he says, and— his smile drops at the slight shift in Leary’s expression, the stare that goes on for miles and the scowl that pulls his lips into a frown. “Gordie, are you feeling alright?”

Leary opens his mouth to speak— shuts it, instead laughing _again_ and this time he doesn’t stop. “I don’t know,” he manages between wheezy laughter, taking his cigarette and putting it out on his wrist, right on the pulse. “I don’t fucking know!” He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see white, barely even feeling the burn of the cigarette.

“Holy shit— _Gordon!_ Hey, hey, hey—” Lottie grabs his hand, the burnt-out cigarette dropping onto the table as he holds his arms away. When Leary opens his eyes, he can see the sheer alarm in Lottie’s own. “What are you _thinking,_ Gord? Jesus Christ! Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

Leary can’t help but laugh again. “I don’t _know,_ ” he repeats, shaking his head feverishly. “What’ve I ever known, Lottie? Nothing!” He keeps laughing, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, tears that roll down his cheeks and refuse to stop. “I’ve never known _anything_ because I’m a goddamn stupid _bastard_ and I—”

“Gordon, stop,” Lottie says, continuing to hold him so he doesn’t do anything else. “Please. You’re not stupid. Just— you’re going through a lot.” His expression softens when Leary finally looks at him. “Come on, I’ll get you home, okay? You should rest.”

The burst of laughter goes as quickly as it came, replaced by dead silence. He looks completely and utterly drained, his deep blue eyes heavy with the weight of loss. With a deep breath, he speaks. “What about your job?”

Lottie stops, chewing on his lip and looking away. “I, uh— I’ve got a temp guy on it. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, then—” Leary lets his eyes slip shut, inhaling and exhaling another deep breath as he tries to re-center himself. When he does, his eyes snap open to meet Lottie’s. “Okay.”

With an encouraging smile, Lottie stands and heads out with Leary in tow, neither of them paying much attention to the other patrons. Perhaps that’s a good thing— at least, it is for Roy. He’s currently at the bar, swirling a glass of scotch in his hand with a deep frown etched in his features. He’s not sure why he decided to come _here_ of all the bars in Los Angeles in the first place— maybe something deep down inside him was hoping he’d run into Cole and Stefan. With a quiet laugh, he throws back the rest of his drink. Ridiculous.

“Stefan, wait—” Well, there’s Cole. He’s probably holding his _precious guard dog_ back, judging by the urgency in his voice.

Roy turns to face them, both eyebrows raised. He’s immediately startled by the fact Stefan is already so close. _Here comes a punch—_

Or maybe not, as Stefan merely holds out a hand and says, “I’m sorry for the other day.”

Not what Roy had been expecting, but— he hesitantly takes Stefan’s hand and shakes it. “No hard feelings,” he says, and he tries to ignore the electricity that shoots down his spine at such a simple touch, “I probably deserved it. I deserve a _lot_ of things.”

Cole frowns at that, releasing his hold on Stefan and instead moving to place his hand on Roy’s shoulder. “No, you don’t,” he says, speaking softly— though, that might just be due to the still-bandaged headwound. “You saved my life. I’d be floating face-down on the waves without you.” His tone is only a little joking.

“He’s right,” Stefan says, pulling his own hand away from Roy’s. “I realized I overreacted after he talked some sense into me. I should’ve been thanking you instead of slamming you into walls.”

Roy inhales deeply. Exhales. It’s suddenly very, _very_ hard to breathe with both of them at his side. They’re so _close_. “Well,” he starts, “Not like I was gonna just leave him to drown.” He directs his next words to Cole. “Hate to admit it, but I need you, buddy.”

Despite Roy’s use of _‘buddy,’_ Cole flashes him a bright smile. “It seems like it was just yesterday when admitting such a thing would cause the sky to open up and immediately strike you down with lightning,” he muses, finally letting go of Roy’s shoulder and turning his attention to the bar. He raises an eyebrow. “Where’s Lottie?”

Roy waves a hand. “Last I saw him, he was taking care of Leary,” he says, “Probably took him home. He looked like a mess.”

At that, Stefan visibly tenses up. “He did?”

“I mean, I guess,” Roy says, “I’d say it had something to do with the latest gossip. One of the girls working the Traffic floor said he was pretty cozy with that poor bastard who got shot.”

Cole’s eyebrows furrow at that. “Keith?” He frowns slightly, crossing his arms and leaning against the bar. “I had no idea. He worked with Ralph and I a few times back in Patrol.”

Stefan’s gone completely quiet. Roy, on the other hand, is a walking mouth as usual. “Yeah, I’d say good ol’ Leary’s torn up over it. I mean, who could blame him? Losing somebody like that—”

He’s cut off by Stefan. “I need a minute,” is all he says before he’s out the door, leaving the other two behind.

Cole watches him go, his bright blue eyes filled with concern. He glances back at Roy. “Uh— can you get a table for all three of us? I’m going to see if he’s alright.”

Roy nods, moving to stand up. “Take your time.”

“Right,” Cole says, offering a quick smile before heading after Stefan, surprised to see him standing completely still in the chilly night air. _I should’ve brought my coat._ He comes up behind Stefan and places a gentle hand on his shoulder, speaking just as delicately for his own sake. “Stefan?”

Stefan jumps slightly, but quickly relaxes under Cole’s touch. “Sorry,” he says, and he moves to run a hand back through his hair, “Just have a lot on my mind, I guess. Everything with Roy, you almost dying…” He trails off, biting his lip. “…Leary.”

Cole gives a small hum, rubbing Stefan’s shoulder soothingly. “It’s okay,” he says, “you’re _allowed_ to feel upset over everything. It’s… stressful.” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing just that small bit. “I still don’t know the story with Leary.”

Stefan inhales sharply. Exhales. “It’s… complicated,” he says, “We just… had a _thing_ a few years ago, I guess. Only lasted a little over a month.” He shakes his head. “I was young and stupid. That’s all.”

Another hum, this time in thought rather than acknowledgement. Cole seems to have caught on. “Is it really?”

Stefan swallows hard and despite himself, he lets out a soft laugh. “No, it’s not,” he says, “but I don’t know if I’m ready for the full story yet. It’s been five years, and yet… it still kind of stings.”

Cole nods. “I understand,” he says, giving Stefan’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Come on. We can forget about it over a few drinks.” He stops, glancing over his own shoulder a little nervously. “Roy’s going to be sitting with us; I told him to get a table. Is that alright?”

“It’s fine with me,” Stefan says, and he seems to have a little bit of his usual demeanor back, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually kind of warming up to the guy.”

Cole laughs, light and sweet. “He’s not too bad,” he says, hand dropping to intertwine his fingers with Stefan’s and pull him inside. “You just have to get past the— oh, what did I say to myself?” He pauses, then— he snaps his fingers. “You just have to get past the early life of delinquency and grandiose facade he masks himself with.”

Stefan lets out a laugh of his own. “Sometimes I don’t know if you should’ve been an English teacher or a psychologist.”

“You know,” Cole starts, “I actually considered that.” Once they’re inside, he pauses to stand on the tips of his toes and press a quick kiss to Stefan’s lips. He looks around after that, spotting the table without much trouble— it’s kind of easy to pick Roy out in a crowd. Not because of anything _bad,_ no; he’s just so… _handsome,_ Cole supposes. He pushes the thought away as soon as it comes, gesturing towards the table as he turns back to Stefan. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Stefan says.

 

* * *

 

Richie’s only been back in California a week and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

It’s home, he guesses, but he’s grown too used to cool weather and rainy days to fully appreciate the sun. He was actually shocked when the sky had opened up and it started pouring down tonight— hence why he’d found himself here in a bar he’d never been to before, glass of whiskey in hand and jacket still damp. It’d stopped a while ago, but… he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He still had things to unpack and his apartment was… lonely.

He’s lonely in general, really, and Richie feels absolutely pathetic about it. There’s a laugh somewhere behind him and absentmindedly, he tosses his head to take a glance. Immediately, his heart drops into his stomach.

He feels like he’s just seen a ghost— one named Cole Phelps.

He looks no different than he had back when they were in high school— just a little taller, facial features more defined. He’s got two men on either side of him and _God,_ Richie has never seen him look happier— even though for whatever reason, he’s got a bandaged head.

His mouth is dry and he goes to throw back what’s left of his drink. It doesn’t help; he just feels even worse. Richie bites out a groan. Should he go talk to him? No, maybe not. He’d never written him back, so it’s safe to assume he probably doesn’t want to see him. That train of thought doesn’t get far, however, as a strikingly similar-looking man slides in next to him.

The stranger’s eyes aren’t as piercing, and he’s just a bit blonder than Cole, but still— it’s almost scary. He flashes Richie a sly grin, sliding over a drink. “You ever had a Manhattan?” He asks, and— he even _sounds_ a bit like him. “Feels like home, despite the distance.”

Richie acknowledges him with an unimpressed look. Whoever this guy is, he’s only like Cole in appearance. “That line ever work for you?”

“Once or twice,” the stranger says, giving a slight shrug. He leans forward with his elbow on the bar and his cheek in his hand, eyeing Richie up and down. “Got caught in the rain?”

Richie hums and motions for another whiskey. “It took me by surprise,” he says, “Weather report said it’d be clear skies and I assumed that’d hold up.” He pauses, as the bartender slides a new glass in front of him. He’s quick to pick it up and take a large swig, relishing in the way it burns on the way down. “You got a name, Manhattan?”

“Alan Post,” he says, holding out a hand for a handshake. “Ad man from New York. I'm here on business.” He glances at the Manhattan he had brought over, returning his gaze to Richie's face with one eyebrow quirked. “You gonna drink that?”

Richie shakes his hand briefly. “Isaac Richmond,” he says, “and no, I don’t think I am. Not a fan.”

Alan gives another small shrug. “More for me,” he says, and he downs it all in one gulp. _Definitely not Cole_ _,_ Richie notes. He sets the glass down, wiping at his mouth with the skin of his hand. “So, Isaac Richmond, huh? What do you do for a living?”

“I paint,” Richie says, “but I also work as an art consultant. Nothing special.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “You can just call me Richie, by the way. Most people do.”

Alan hums. “I’d say that’s pretty special,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Takes a lot to pursue art. Patience, and all that.” Yet another shrug. “I don’t know for sure, that’s just what the Creative guys tell me.”

“I guess I’d agree with them,” Richie says. He finishes off his glass and pushes it aside. “Not that I’m a very patient person to begin with.” Despite himself, he gives Alan a vaguely appreciative once-over. He suddenly wishes he still had something to drink.

Unluckily for Richie— or perhaps luckily— Alan notices right off the bat. He offers a million-dollar smile, eyes half-lidded as he leans on the bar. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means enough small talk, Manhattan,” Richie says, “My place or yours?”

That definitely catches Alan off-guard, his eyes widening and his eyebrows shooting upwards. “Well, well, well,” he says, quickly returning to his usual cool demeanor. “Yours. Would rather not be spotted by one of my coworkers again.” He winks.

Richie’s mouth is still dry. “Then, what are we waiting for?”


	16. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Icarus has flown too close to the sun.

Fontaine had turned his entire office upside down and he still couldn’t find that damned letter.

Now, he isn’t the type to misplace things. Quite the opposite, really— he was always meticulous in keeping his office organized and he should’ve found it immediately. However, the fact of the matter is it seems to have disappeared completely and as much as he hates to admit it, he’s starting to panic. He couldn’t have such sensitive information floating around out there where just _anybody_ could read it; no, that’d be a huge problem for both him and many others.

The last time he’d seen it was before Courtney’s last session. He knows that much and it’s crossed his mind once or twice that maybe his young patient had took it upon himself to steal it after their _disagreement._ There’d always been something _off_ about that boy, but he never would’ve guessed him to be the type with sticky fingers.

He’s brought out of his thoughts by a knock on the door— most likely Courtney, seeing as he’s right on time for today’s appointment. “Come in,” he calls, and he starts to reorganize his desk. It’s a mess; the whole _room_ is a mess.  

Courtney enters the room a moment later, locking the door behind him and shaking the handle to check. “Hello, doctor,” he says, sounding much more stiff than usual. He shuffles his feet— he looks unsure. “Um— you suggested that I should come in early for this appointment. Can I ask why?”

Fontaine clears his throat and sets aside a stack of papers. “I’d thought I’d devote a little more time to talking to you about your… situation,” he says, and he gestures for him to sit, “I apologize for the mess. I’ve been doing some reorganizing. Early spring cleaning, I suppose.”

“Right,” Courtney says, moving to take a seat. He folds his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs and bouncing his leg as he glances around. His neutral expression gradually turns to one of discomfort— whether it be due to the subject or the state of the room, it’s unclear. “I’m sorry for getting so defensive last time, doctor. Just— it’s been… stressful for me.”

Fontaine breathes a low hum and sits down in his own chair, lacing his fingers together. “Yes, I’d imagine,” he says, “Would you like to talk about it?”

Courtney nods quietly. “I guess,” he murmurs, his eyes on the floor. There’s a strange amount of _guilt_ in his eyes— _most likely because he_ is _guilty,_ Fontaine muses. Courtney lets out an awkward cough. “I know I said I moved in with him after a week, but… that’s not the whole story.” He inhales and exhales a deep breath. “We were— _involved_ during the war. We fell out of contact when we were shipped back, though. And— I don’t know, it… it feels _good_ to be safe.” He shifts in his seat. “He protects me.”

Another hum. Fontaine fixes Courtney with a steady gaze. “I see,” he says, and he tries his damnedest to keep the disgust out of his tone, “Let’s touch on that. You say he makes you feel safe— are you sure these are romantic feelings after all and not just you looking for some form of comfort?”

Courtney goes silent, eyebrows furrowed in genuine thought. Soon enough, though, he nods. “I’m pretty sure,” he says, reaching up and brushing some hair out of his face. His hands are shaking— he’s nervous. “I mean— Jack was my…” He trails off, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay, this is embarrassing, but he was my first for everything. I _love_ him. Sure, he’s got _lots_ more experience, but…” Again, his sentence trails into nothing. He leaves it at that.

“And what exactly do you mean by _‘_ _more experience,’_ Courtney?” Fontaine asks, expression almost analytical.

“He’s, um—” Courtney breathes out a nervous laugh, eyes darting to anywhere but Fontaine. His gaze eventually settles on the clock. “He’s thirty-four.”

Fontaine raises his eyebrows. “That’s a nine year age difference,” he says, “You don’t feel… taken advantage of?”

Almost too quickly, Courtney shakes his head. _Now_ he’s looking at Fontaine. “No, not at all,” he says, completely honestly. “Everything that happened, I _wanted_ to happen. I _asked_ to happen.” He swallows hard, averting his gaze back to the floor. “It’s not just a one-sided infatuation, either; he’s in love with me, too.”

Fontaine keeps his gaze on Courtney. “I see,” he drawls, and a little bit of condescension seeps in by mistake, “He’s told you this?”

Courtney nods, and even though he smiles, he keeps his eyes down. “Every day.”

“It’s never once occurred to you that it might be false?” Fontaine asks, eyebrows raised impossibly high. He doesn’t give Courtney a chance to answer that question before continuing. “Were you the only… _man_ he was involved with during the war? I’m merely curious, as I’ve seen cases where veterans took on multiple partners as a means of coping.”

All of Courtney's fidgeting comes to a halt. He inhales sharply— exhales. The question seems to have hit a sore spot. “No,” he replies after a bout of silence, a small frown pulling at his lips. “But— I think I was the only one that mattered. I— I don't know, he slept with everyone in the unit, but he only kept coming back to me, Hank Merrill, and Cole Phelps.” He wilts under Fontaine's intense stare, his frown growing. “Hank died, and… I guess the Cole we knew died with him.”

“Interesting,” Fontaine says, “And this Cole… is he still around?”

Even now, Courtney is completely still. There's another silence— longer, this time. It seems that sore spot has grown into a point of weakness. “Yes,” he says, finally. “He's… working with Jack on a few cases.” Only part of that statement is a bold-faced lie. “But there's nothing between them. Cole has a new man, and— well, Jack punched Cole in the face.”

For a moment, Fontaine is silent. All he does is sit there and… _stare_. Then, he forces a smile and moves to stand up. “That’ll be all for today, Courtney,” he says, “I’d give you more of my time, but… as you can see, I have a lot to do here and it _is_ your day off. You should go out and enjoy it.” A pause. “Perhaps with your… _partner_.”

Courtney’s eyes snap up to Fontaine’s face. He smiles back a little uneasily, standing after him and shoving his hands in his pockets instead of going for a handshake. “Yeah,” he says, glancing back at the door. It’s obvious he wants to leave already. “Um— thank you for speaking with me, Doctor Fontaine.” He crosses the room as if he’s being chased out, and just like that, he’s gone.

Fontaine can’t help but chuckle. Courtney had been… remarkably _easy_ to crack, but he always had been pretty proficient at finding people’s weaknesses and using them against them. Maybe his young patient would think twice before stealing from him again.

However, there is still one little problem by the name of _Jack_.

Fontaine will deal with that when the time comes, but until then, he has a cluttered office to deal with and calls to make.

 

* * *

 

The moment Courtney gets home, the dam breaks.

He backs himself against the door, squeezing his stinging eyes shut as his lip quivers. He’s been in an internal battle with himself on the whole way home, from street to bus to elevator. Surely, none of what Doctor Fontaine was implying was true, but— what if it was? What if it _is?_ What if Jack doesn’t love him? What if he has feelings for someone else? What if he’s still sleeping around? What if it’s all a _lie?_ That thought turns out to be too much to handle right now— he ends up choking out a quiet sob and covering his eyes, tears spilling down his face.

“Courtney?” Jack’s concerned voice breaks through his thoughts.

Courtney lowers his hands from his damp face, eyes snapping up to Jack. “I—” His voice breaks— not a good kind of break, this time. He quickly looks away, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t— don’t look at me.”

Jack frowns deeply. “Courtney, what _happened?_ ”

“It’s— a lot,” Courtney mumbles, finally opening his eyes and returning his gaze to Jack’s face. “Doctor Fontaine was implying that—” He can’t even bring himself to say it, more tears rolling down his cheeks as his face burns up in shame. He _hates_ crying— especially in front of Jack.

Jack takes a step forward, gently cupping Courtney’s face and wiping away his tears. “Whatever he said, I’m sure it’s not true,” he says, “He can’t be trusted. We know that much from what he’s got his hands in.”

Courtney inhales sharply, shakily— “He was implying that you were taking advantage of me. That you still—” He stops, exhaling deeply as he leans into Jack’s hand and lets his eyes slip shut. “That you still have feelings for Cole.”

At that, Jack tenses up. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous, Courtney,” he says, “I love _you_. Not Cole, or anybody else.”

In an act that is surprising to even himself, Courtney opens his eyes and holds direct eye contact. “You’re— you’re telling me the truth?” He asks, unable to keep the sheer _hope_ out of his voice.

“Of course I am,” Jack says, and he presses a kiss to Courtney’s forehead. When he pulls back, he looks Courtney in the face, rubbing his thumb against his cheek. “I’d never lie to you. Especially not about something as important as this.”

And just like that, all of Courtney’s fears are abolished. He leans in to bury his face in Jack’s chest, arms wrapped around him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” he says, voice a little muffled. “Thank you for— being honest with me.” He sniffs. “I love you so, _so_ much. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Jack shifts to hug him back, resting his chin on top of Courtney’s head. “I love you too,” he says, “and you’re never going to lose me, alright? I’m always going to be here.”

Courtney hums, quiet. “Jack…” He exhales softly, feeling himself calm down in Jack’s embrace. _Safety._ He hugs a little tighter. _And love._ “Forever, right?” Carefully, he shifts so he can look up at the taller man. That hope has yet to leave. “We’re— going to live our lives together? Grow old together?”

Jack laughs softly. “I promise,” he says, and he kisses Courtney on the forehead again, “‘Til death do us part and all of that.”

“‘Til death do us part,” Courtney repeats, leaning into Jack’s arms and burying his face back into his chest, “and all of that.”

 

* * *

 

Although he’d never admit it, Cole hopes Roy isn’t getting fed up with all of the invitations out.

It’s been a solid week now; a solid week since the _Latin_ metamorphosed from a dinky bar to a full-blown club and a solid week of nights out with him and Stefan. Cole doesn’t know why he’s nervous about it _now;_ every night, Roy seems to be having fun— certainly more fun than he’s ever seen him have. There’s no reason to be so riddled with anxiety over this, especially considering that, again, Roy _enjoys_ going out with them.

…Okay, he might not know _exactly_ why he feels this way, but— he has an inkling.

Memories of that horrible night have been coming back in fragments, and now, two weeks after it’s happened, Cole is more than capable of piecing together the puzzle. It’s difficult, though— guilt weighed on his shoulders like the world over Atlas when he recalled the fact that he had _kissed_ Roy, when he recalled the fact that even though it may have been uncomfortable and ended just as quickly as it began, he _enjoyed_ it. God, he hated himself for it, but— it felt _right_ to have Roy’s lips on his.

The burning guilt was eventually extinguished by a simple conversation with Stefan, a conversation that ultimately ended in an agreement that _it’s not a big deal._ If Cole wanted to pursue Roy as well as Stefan, then he could have at it.

Back to the matter at hand— the kiss wasn’t his only realization. Realization one: by pushing him away he realized that Roy is a good person who would never take advantage of a situation like that, and two: earlier in the night Roy almost slipped and told Cole that he _loved_ him. Cole doesn’t quite know what to make of that second one; the mere thought of Roy possibly returning his feelings—

Wait. What? Feelings? What feelings? For Roy? _Feelings,_ for Roy Earle, his corrupt— well, not anymore— partner-in-justice? Cole’s thoughts swim in a great storm as he stares at Roy, eyes locked while they sit at their table at the back of the _Latin._ Perhaps the storm is actually in Roy’s eyes, intense rings of sea glass, tempest-tossed and— _okay, shut up._ Cole looks away, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly as his leg bounces ever-so-slightly under the table.

“How long’s it been since Stefan got up for drinks, again?” Cole asks, anything to break the palpably tense silence between them. He’s thankful for the band playing just across the way, the dancefloor lively as ever on the new-and-improved club’s first Saturday night.

Roy hums, eyes staying on Cole’s face. Briefly, and Cole’s quick to notice, his gaze dips lower. “I don’t know,” he says, and he shifts to rest his cheek in his hand, “I haven’t been paying attention.”

 _Oh no._ Cole hopes that Roy doesn’t clock the sudden warmth in his cheeks, the redness that trails up to the tips of his ears, standing out in contrast to his pale, freckled skin. “That’s fine,” he manages to get out, waving a hand as he turns to peer out at the rest of the club. His eyes eventually wander to the dancefloor, active and filled with enthusiastic patrons and their partners. “There’s an awful lot of people out tonight,” Cole comments idly.

Another hum and a quirk of a brow. Roy glances towards the crowd. “Sure is,” he says, “but it _is_ Saturday. One night of the week everybody can let loose and relax.” He turns back to Cole, mouth hanging open as if he’s thinking about continuing. He quickly closes it and clears his throat, running a hand back through his hair. “You ever dance much?”

Cole’s gaze snaps to Roy, then, eyebrows raised in surprise. He shakes his head. “No, not much, but—” He stops, breathing out a small chuckle. “I took classes on waltz and tango when I was younger.”

Roy offers him a grin and moves to stand up, holding out a hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Well, that certainly catches Cole off-guard. He stares up at Roy with wide, starry eyes, mouth hanging open with words that only turn to ash on his tongue. Soon enough, though, he shuts his mouth and swallows hard, gingerly reaching out to take Roy’s hand. By God, it feels _wonderful._ “One of us to actually have the gall to ask the other,” he replies, offering a gentle smile as he moves to stand.

Roy just gives him another grin, pulling him towards the dancefloor. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m feeling bold tonight,” he says, tone low. As if on cue and _just_ for them, the band switches into a slower song— something more _romantic_. His other hand ends up on Cole’s waist. “Lucky us, hm? They’re playing something perfect for slow dancing.”

Cole finds himself staring up and into Roy’s eyes, his free hand resting on the taller man’s shoulder. “Lucky us,” he echoes, too _distracted_ by the feeling of Roy’s hand on his waist to bother with leading, content to follow just for once. He inhales and exhales a deep breath, averting his gaze. “You know, I’m sure you’ve heard this already, but— you look nice tonight.” _Oh my God, what are you doing?_ Cole’s face goes bright red.

“Sounds better when you’re the one saying it,” Roy says, and his eyes dip lower for the second time that night— at least, the second time Cole’s caught it. He lets out a soft laugh. “You look nice too, but— I always think you look good.”

Breathing a quiet laugh of his own, Cole can’t help but smile at the kind words. “I’m flattered,” he says, adjusting his hold on Roy’s hand so it’s a bit more comfortable. He finds himself leaning into Roy’s grip, the hand on his waist growing impossibly _warm,_ even through the fabric of his clothing. “I’ve found myself thinking the same. About you.” Despite his mind telling him to shut up and stop right there, he continues with a sly grin. “Especially after I saved you from that horrid suit. The sleeves were _awful,_ Roy.”

Roy scoffs and rolls his eyes, but there’s a certain degree of fondness to it. “I thought it looked fine,” he says, “but thanks for saving me from what was _apparently_ a disaster.” His hand slides down the _slightest_ bit lower, fingers ghosting Cole’s hip, but it’s not clear if he’s aware of it or not. A smirk tugs at his lips— maybe he _is_ aware of it. “Good to know you think I’m nice to look at, though.”

A spark runs up Cole’s spine at the simple gesture. His internal dialogue is in utter disarray— a part of him is telling himself to pull away and end this right before it gets _too_ far, but another part of him is telling him to reciprocate. With a hard swallow, he decides to listen to the latter, leaning in so his head rests on Roy’s chest. “Who wouldn’t?” He mumbles, his tone unintentionally lower than before.

At that, Roy tenses up a little— and Cole doesn’t miss the fact that his heart is absolutely _racing_. He inhales sharply and exhales with a shaky laugh. “I don’t know,” he says, “Lots of people, I guess.”

Although he wants to close his eyes and savor the moment, Cole keeps speaking— he enjoys feeling the vibrations in Roy’s chest when he responds. “They’re wrong,” he says, and finally his eyes slip shut. “You’re not too bad, Roy.” Cole wants to say something more, but— he stops, biting his lip in thought. Inhaling deeply, he decides to throw caution to the wind and continue on. “Not just in looks, either.”

Another shaky laugh, as Roy’s heart somehow picks up even more speed. “Unsurprisingly, you’d be the first to think that,” he says, “I don’t make the greatest impression on people, if you haven’t noticed. Can’t count how many times a week I’m getting slammed into walls or punched in the face.” His words are joking, but they still hold an ounce of truth.  

Cole hums, pulling away to gaze into Roy’s eyes. Without thinking, he moves his free hand to cup Roy’s face, rubbing gently with his thumb. “First impressions don’t matter, as long as you make an effort to improve yourself as time goes on,” he says, voice surprisingly soft. He breathes out a quiet laugh, then. “You’ve certainly proven to me that you’re capable of such a feat. I’m proud of you.”

Roy opens his mouth to speak— nothing comes out, but he doesn’t bother to shut it, either. He leans his cheek into Cole’s hand and cracks a surprisingly _soft_ smile. “What can I say? I’m trying.” He inhales deeply, then, eyes locked onto Cole’s. “Mostly because of you. I’d probably be worse off if you hadn’t came stumbling into my life.”

Cole chuckles. “I’d like to think I entered your life a little more dignified than that,” he says, tone just a tad bit joking. After that, though, he goes quiet— licks his lips when his eyes dip just a bit lower than they should. They snap back up to Roy’s own eyes, intense and blue and almost _pleading._ With a deep and shaky breath, Cole asks possibly the most risky question he ever has. “Do you want to…?” Even with the question left unfinished, it’s clear what he wants to do.

Roy’s eyes go wide. It’s clear he’s surprised by Cole’s words— and for good reason, really. He decides to reply with a question of his own. “Is it okay?”

“We, uh—” Cole breathes out yet another laugh, light and nervous as his cheeks color a deep red. “Stefan and I talked about it. After I remembered more about that night.” His hand hasn’t left Roy’s face, thumb still caressing his cheek softly.

“Oh,” Roy says, and his own face is uncharacteristically red. He inhales sharply. Exhales. It looks like he wants to say something more, but— he just stares for a minute. “What else do you remember?”

For what feels like forever, Cole is silent. Then— there’s a knowing grin spreading across his face. “You almost slipped and told me that you loved me,” he says as if it’s nothing, though that’s more to throw Roy off.

“You remember _that_ _?_ ” Roy asks. Yeah, Cole had definitely thrown him off. He shakes his head and averts his gaze, cheeks almost impossibly red now. “Well, it was an accident, but…” He stops and brings his eyes back to Cole’s face, gaze intense. His next words are sincere. “I meant it.”

Giving a small hum, Cole begins to stand up on the tips of his toes, intending to close the gap between them— but he stops just short of Roy’s lips, a genuine smile playing on his own. “Then I mean it, too,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. With that, he leans in and kisses Roy, soft and tender and filled with _sparks._ Roy wastes no time in reciprocating, his hand leaving Cole’s hip to gently rest on the back of his head. Cole lets go of Roy’s hand only to wrap his arms around the taller man’s neck, pressing himself even closer, as close as he _can_ be as his lips work against Roy’s. Suddenly and without warning, Roy deepens the kiss— Cole reacts with a noise of surprise, lips parting to allow Roy access to his mouth.

It doesn’t last long, as Roy breaks away, breathing heavily. He takes a minute to compose himself before speaking up. “You certainly have a way with words,” he jokes, and he rubs his nose against Cole’s. It’s wildly affectionate— especially for him.

With a gentle laugh, Cole leans in to press a quick kiss to Roy’s lips. “What can I say?” He laughs again, more of a chuckle this time around. “I studied English for years. Has to count for something, hm?”

“Well,” Roy starts, “I definitely appreciate it.” He inhales deeply and exhales with a laugh of his own. “Maybe we should get off the dancefloor. Stefan’s probably back with our drinks by now.”

Cole nods, a smile on his face _despite_ the great hesitation as he pulls away from Roy. “Right,” he says, glancing down and— he intertwines his fingers with Roy’s, gripping his hand tightly.

For a minute, Roy just stares down at their interlocked hands. Then, he shakes his head with a smile and leads Cole back to their table. He’d been right— Stefan is waiting for them, glass of whiskey in hand and something of a grin on his face. “Aren’t you two cute,” Stefan says, tone teasing, “Kissing on the dancefloor. I’ve never witnessed something more cliche in my life.”

Cole scoffs goodnaturedly, rolling his eyes as he moves to slide into the booth. “As if _we_ didn’t kiss in the rain, Stefan,” he says, absentmindedly reaching out to hold Stefan’s hand at the same time as Roy’s.

Roy snorts and reaches for the glass of scotch Stefan had brought back for him, taking a large sip. “Yeah, buddy, you have no room to talk.”

Stefan raises his eyebrows, leaning forward just a bit on the table, cheek in his hand. “Alright, fair enough,” he says, “but it was still cliche.”

Cole gives a small shrug of his shoulders. “Cliche can be good,” he says, looking between the two men with a sly grin spreading across his face. “It was good with _both_ of you, anyways.”

At that, both Roy and Stefan give him equally loving looks. For now, all is well; in the eyes of these three men, _nothing_ can tear them apart— God himself couldn’t break their bond with each other.

What they don’t know, however, is that there’s a storm brewing on the horizon; one unstoppable by even Him.

 

* * *

 

Late in the evening, Fontaine sits in his office, fingers laced in front of his face and brow furrowed. He’d been stewing in his thoughts ever since Courtney had left that morning. Trouble. They had trouble. Surely, there had to be some sort of solution, but one isn’t coming to him straight away. It’s _odd_ that he doesn’t have a plan for once. That’d always been his forte, even in his youth.

Perhaps he should make some calls. Yes, that’d be the smart thing to do. Pushing up out of his chair, he makes his way out of the room and goes for the telephone, dialing the first number that comes into his head without a second thought. He waits.

And waits.

And—

“Leland Monroe speaking,” comes the easily-distinguished voice on the other end, punctuated by a drag of his cigar. “Who is it?”

Fontaine hums. “Hello, Leland,” he says, “It’s Harlan. I’m calling with concerns regarding the Fund.”

Monroe goes silent on the other end, before eventually letting out a thoughtful harrumph and shifting slightly. “I’m listening,” he says, tentatively. “Is this about any missing documents? I seem to find myself in the same predicament, if so.”

“Yes, actually,” Fontaine says, and he breathes out a deep sigh. “I had a letter come up missing after a client of mine left my office the other day. I suspect he stole it.” A pause. “I wouldn’t be so concerned if it wasn’t for the fact that his… _beau_ is apparently an investigator.” There’s barely hidden disdain in his voice.

Monroe gives a low hum, contemplative. He takes another drag from his cigar, audibly blowing out smoke. “…Interesting,” he says, and he doesn’t bother concealing his own disgust at the use of the word _‘beau.’_ “Funny thing, that is, considering that not too long ago my—” He stops, chuckling lowly. “My _associate,_ Roy Earle, was spotted with a Cole Phelps breaking into my offices.” He pauses, his next words drenched in underlying contempt. “I… _took care_ of Phelps. Apparently, he’s enough to bait Earle wherever I please.”

Fontaine quirks an eyebrow at that, even though he knows Monroe can’t see him. “Cole Phelps?” He says, and he lets out a low chuckle, but it’s _hardly_ amused. In fact, his irritation is only growing by the second and Fontaine considers himself a _very_ patient man to begin with. “Well, I’ll be damned. I think our problems are working _together_. My client brought his name up this morning during our session.”

“Did he, now?” Monroe drawls, tone dripping with venom. There’s a long pause as there’s another audible drag from his cigar, and he breaks the silence when he laughs bitterly. “Small world. Did your client say anything… _damning_ about Phelps? What about your client’s—” He scoffs. “— _‘beau?’_ ”

Something of a wicked smile crosses Fontaine’s face. “He did, actually,” he says. “ _Apparently_ _,_ they were _both_ involved with one another during the war. My client was also kind enough to mention that Phelps has a ‘new man’ now.” He takes pause, as an idea finally comes to mind. “I think I could pull some strings and put this little... _fire_ out, if need be.”

Monroe lets out yet another thoughtful harrumph. “Bury them,” he says rather dismissively. “Make them regret mucking about with the Fund.” He makes a disgusted noise. “Bunch of good-for-nothing cocksuckers, the lot of them.”

“Quite literally,” Fontaine says dryly. He inhales sharply. “If you’ll please excuse me, I have more calls to make. Have a nice evening, Leland.” It’s all he has to say before he hangs up. Immediately, he starts dialing again.

He’s going to be here for a while.

 

* * *

 

Cole jolts awake early in the morning, to both the sound of the phone ringing and someone absolutely _pounding_ on the door.

With a tired groan, he rolls out of Stefan’s embrace, pausing once he gets up to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead. “Don’t worry about getting up,” he whispers, brushing a few strands of hair out of Stefan’s face. “I’ll take care of everything, Stef.”

Stefan mumbles something incoherent. “Y’sure?” He asks, words slightly slurred, “You’re only one person.”

Cole chuckles softly. “I’m sure,” he says, lovingly cupping Stefan’s face and caressing with his thumb. “Don’t worry.” There’s another kiss to the forehead before he finally pulls away, crossing the bedroom to stumble into the living room, heading straight for the phone with eyes half-closed. He picks it up, squinting at the door— there’s still someone knocking. Shaking his head, he returns his attention to the phone. “Hello?”

“Cole.” It’s Jack on the other end, voice almost _frantic_. “Have you seen the papers yet?”

Eyebrows raising, Cole shakes his head. He then realizes Jack can’t see, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. “No,” he says, sleep still in his voice. “Is that why someone’s banging at the door?” He holds the phone a little bit away from him as he raises his voice with that last question; it’s directed to whoever’s at the door instead of Jack.

“I don’t know,” Jack says, “Didn’t your mother teach you _manners?_ Go answer it. It’s probably important.”

Grumbling, Cole sets the phone down. Not on the receiver— to the side, so the call doesn’t end. He heads over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open to see—

…Roy. He all but barrels past Cole into the apartment, newspaper in hand. “I came over as soon as I saw it,” he says, pivoting on his heel to face Cole. He pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “Did you just wake up?”

“I did,” he says, eyes still half-lidded. “I was on the phone with Jack.” Cole moves back to the phone, picking it up and tucking it between his ear and his shoulder. “Roy’s here,” he mumbles towards Jack, clearing his throat and speaking to both of them, now. “What’s all this about the newspaper?”

He gets a reply from Jack first. “You might want to see it for yourself,” he says, voice almost _unnervingly_ quiet, “It’s a problem. A huge one.”

Giving Roy a confused look, Cole reaches for the newspaper in his hands. Roy shoots him a weary look of his own as he hands it over. Once he has it in his grasp, Cole’s tired eyes move to read the headline on the front page.

All of the blood drains from his face.


	17. Exposé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city of Los Angeles is shaken to its core by the front page article.

That morning started like any other one.

Jack had woken up with Courtney in his arms and crawled out of bed as carefully as he could. He showered, got dressed, started a pot of coffee; all routine. Then…

Then he saw the paper and his blood ran cold. It took him a second to fully parse what he was reading, but there it was in bold print on the front page: _Queer infiltrates LAPD_. He doesn’t bother to read the article below it before he’s rushing back inside the apartment, calling out, “Courtney? We’ve got a problem!”

There’s no response. Breathing out a frustrated noise, more at the situation at hand than anything else, Jack makes his way into the bedroom. Courtney’s still fast asleep somehow and carefully, he moves to shake him awake. “Courtney,” he says, not making any attempt to keep the panic out of his voice, “Come on. Wake up.”

All of a sudden, Courtney jolts awake, eyes snapping open to stare up at Jack. “What is it?” He asks, sleep still in his voice as he rubs at his eyes and moves to sit up. “Jeez, Jack, you sound freaked out.”

“I _am_ freaked out, Courtney,” Jack says, and he tosses the newspaper in his lap, “Look at the headline.”

He watches as Courtney takes the paper and squints down at it, his expression immediately changing to one of utter dismay and _fear_ as he reads the headline. His eyes dart back up to Jack’s face, wide and full of terror. “What the _fuck?_ ” is the first thing to come out of his mouth, his gaze dropping to read through the preview of the article on the front page. Immediately, his face pales. “Oh my God. Oh my _God,_ Jack, this is—” His voice dies in his throat, one hand going to run through his hair. “This is almost exactly what I told Dr. Fontaine.”

At that, Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Courtney,_ please tell me you’re kidding,” he says, and he reaches up to push his own hair back. It just falls in place once more, as his lips twist into a frown. “I told you he can’t be trusted. I—” He lets out a frustrated noise. The words aren’t coming to him immediately. “You _knew_ he was involved with those corrupt bastards. What made you think he wouldn’t just take what you said and run with it?” He gestures towards the paper.

Courtney scoffs. “First of all, I thought all of our sessions were protected under doctor-patient confidentiality, and second of all—” He stops with a sharp exhale, moving to stand and pace back and forth. “Second of all, I _need_ somebody to _talk_ to, Jack,” he says, turning to face him now. He’s gesturing vaguely, and judging by the crease in his brow he’s struggling to verbalize his thoughts. “I don’t— I don’t get that anywhere else.”

Jack opens his mouth to speak— nothing comes out. He shakes his head and breathes out a deep sigh. “So, what, you can’t talk to _me_ now?” He asks, crossing his arms, “I’m always here, Courtney. I mean, we’re in a relationship, for Christ’s sake. That’s what couples _do;_ they _talk_ and sort out their problems together.”

“Jack, you _know_ what I meant,” Courtney says, tone incredulous as he just _stares._ “I need a _professional._ A _therapist._ I— I know I don’t exactly show it, but—” He breathes out an irritated sigh, pivoting around and placing his hand on his forehead, eyes on the floor. “ _God,_ this isn’t happening.”

“That’s the problem, Courtney,” Jack says, making a wide gesture with one hand, the other on his hip, “It _is_ happening and now I have to clean up _your_ mess _again_.”

Courtney spins around to face Jack, his mouth wide open as he gives Jack a disbelieving stare. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he says, scoffing again— it comes out as more of a bitter laugh. “ _My_ mess? Oh, sure, I _told_ him to rat Phelps out to the press, I _told_ him to violate the agreement between a doctor and his patient, because it’s always _my_ fucking fault, isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to Jack, his face steadily turning red in a mix of anger and something deep inside of him that makes his eyes sting. He doesn’t mean to shout with his next question, yet still— “ _Isn’t it!?_ ”

Jack doesn’t even flinch, instead standing his ground and staring Courtney down. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, “but fine, if that’s what you want to believe.” He turns on his heel to leave. “I’m going to go call Cole and try to sort this out.”

“You’re going to call Cole,” Courtney repeats, his words surprisingly _cold_ — Jack’s never heard him with such resentment in his voice. He inhales sharply— exhales, expression hardening as he turns, himself, and heads for the closet. “I’m getting dressed and heading to the clinic. Don’t try and stop me.”

“Lucky for you,” Jack starts, “I won’t.”

He doesn’t get an answer to that. After a few minutes of complete silence, a fully-dressed Courtney finally walks into the living room, passing Jack without a single look. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the door, hand hovering over the handle. That’s when he tosses his head over his shoulder to look at Jack, and in the light, there’s a subtle watery glint to his eyes. All the anger has melted away, replaced by genuine hurt and tears threatening to fall— and it’s obvious in his voice. “Do you— really want me to go?”

Jack says nothing, staring down at the table in front of him. A voice at the back of his head screams _‘no,’_ but he inhales sharply and picks up the phone, starting to dial. “It’s your choice, Courtney,” he says, “Not mine.”

Courtney goes dead silent. Then— “Don’t worry about me if I don’t come back tonight.” His words are surprisingly _soft_ for how sharp they should be, obviously hiding desperation and almost begging for a response— but he leaves before he can get it, the door clicking shut behind him.

Jack doesn’t have much time to think about it before there’s a “Hello?” on the other line.

 

* * *

 

It’s a surprisingly nice morning.

There’s a brisk breeze, one that tousles Roy’s hair and plays on his cheeks. He’d decided to go for a walk before heading into the station— there was a lot on his mind and he wasn’t needed for another hour, anyway. His thoughts immediately shift towards Cole and despite himself, he can’t help but smile. After months of pining, he finally could call him _his_. It’s enough to put a spring in his step and a wider smile on his face.

The smile slips when notices something out of the corner of his eye and he slows to a stop in front of a newspaper stand, eyebrows furrowed. The first thing he notices is Cole’s picture underneath the headline and it takes him a minute to figure out what exactly it says, but— his heart drops into his stomach. _Queer infiltrates LAPD_. Quickly, he reaches out to snatch up a copy and read through the article the best he can. When he gets to the end, he bites out a frustrated noise. The whole thing is worrying, right down to the call for _legal action_.

Never before have two words left such a bad taste in his mouth. He tosses a nickel to the man sitting by the stand, folding the paper under his arm and turning on his heel. He has to get to Cole and fast.

This is a goddamn _mess._

 

* * *

 

The first thing Rusty wakes up to is a newspaper falling into his face.

Needless to say, he’s more than a _little_ disgruntled. Moving to sit up, he shoots James a vaguely annoyed look and raises his eyebrows. “What the Hell was that for?”

James, already dressed for the day, looking uncomfortable and surprisingly _anxious,_ just crosses his arms and taps his foot. He opens his mouth to respond— but, he shuts it, obviously struggling for the words. Soon enough, though, he sighs and gestures towards the newspaper. “Read the front page, Fin.”

Rusty gives him another displeased look before grabbing the paper and moving to flip it around. He says nothing for a long moment, eyes scanning the page as he reads. Then, he lets out a frustrated noise and tosses it aside. “Jesus Christ,” he says, and he reaches up to rub at his forehead, “I should’ve known this would happen eventually. I just always figured it’d be one of _us_ and not one of the kids.”  

Nodding, James moves to stand in front of a mirror in their bedroom and adjusts the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m going to make a statement to the press,” he says, still looking thoroughly disturbed. “I know I should have more time to think, but— Worrell’s going to hear about this _today._ ” He pauses, expression dropping even further. “He may already have.”

Rusty runs a hand back through his hair before moving to stand up. “Let me get dressed,” he says, “I’ll go with you. You’ll need support handling all of this.” He’s already going for the closet. “God, whoever wrote that schlock needs to get their head out of their ass before I think about doing it for them.”

“Right,” James says, and judging by the distance in his voice, he’s stuck in his own thoughts. He eventually stops what he’s doing, if just for a moment, dropping his head into his hands and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “I don’t understand how this _happened,_ ” he says, dropping his arms to his side and peering over his shoulder at Rusty. “We avoided scandal five years ago, with everything between Gordon and Stefan. Why now? Why _Cole,_ possibly the most discreet and cautious one out of all of us?” He exhales sharply, turning back to the mirror and fixing his tie next. “It doesn’t make sense, Fin.”

“If you want my honest opinion,” Rusty starts, “it seems like sabotage to me.” He pauses to pull on what he’d chosen out of the closet, focusing on buttoning up his shirt. “Somebody’s trying to stop _something_. We should talk to the kids, see if they’ve taken on any outside jobs.” A frown crosses his face as he moves to knot his tie. “We could be looking at even more trouble than newspaper slander.”

James just hums, half in acknowledgement and half in thought. Then, he freezes, standing up completely straight as he goes stiff. He suddenly whips around to face Rusty. “The drowning,” he says, slapping his palm to his forehead. “The _drowning!_ Do you think it’s connected to _that?_ ”

Rusty raises his eyebrows. “I hope like Hell it’s not,” he says, “but I have a feeling it is.” He shrugs his jacket on, then, and heads for the door. “Let’s go. We have a lot of work to do and you know I hate work.”

With a simple nod, James sets off to follow him.

 

* * *

 

Ralph is _exhausted_.

He feels like he barely slept an hour last night and— well, that’s pretty much the truth, actually. He’d been with his partner, Harry Caldwell, until early into the morning. Reaching up to rub at his eyes, he leans back in his chair, tipping it back on it’s legs. He bites out a yawn and frowns up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed. Already a boring day and it hadn’t even really started. He taps his pencil against his leg in thought, chair still balanced precariously.

All of a sudden, the voice of the very man he had spent the night with sounds from behind him, his usually cool and collected tone surprisingly unnerved. “Cole’s been outed.” Not so surprisingly now.

Ralph opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t have time to do so before he loses his balance and hits the floor. He hisses out a pained groan and props himself up on his elbows, rubbing at his head. “ _Fuck,_ ” he says, and he glances up at Harry, eyebrows furrowed again, “I’m sorry, he’s been _what_ now?”  

Harry rolls his eyes, although there’s a certain kind of fondness behind it. He reaches out to help him up before saying anything more, and once Ralph’s back on his feet, he continues. “Yeah. _Outed._ Take a peek at the front page.” He hands off his copy of the newspaper.

Ralph tries to ignore the fact his hand is still tingling even after Harry’s let go of it and instead focuses on the paper. Immediately, his fingers start to tremble. Swallowing hard, he snaps his gaze up to Harry. “This is awful,” he says, and he internally curses at the fact his voice has gone up an octave. He drops his eyes back down to the print. All it does is leave a bad taste in his mouth and a certain bit of fear in his chest. “Awful and a mess. Has anybody talked to him yet?”

With a shrug, Harry moves to lean on the desk. “No clue,” he says, squinting up at the ceiling. “He’s cozy with Bekowsky, right? Kid hasn’t been at the station all morning.” He pauses, putting a hand to his chin in thought. “Neither has Earle.”

“I’d say we should call him, but I don’t want to be the one to break the news if he hasn’t found out yet,” Ralph says, and he tosses the paper aside. It hits Harry in the arm, landing by his hand. He inhales sharply. “Sorry.”

Harry barely reacts to begin with, only noticing when Ralph apologizes. He just waves a hand in response. “Nah, don’t sweat it,” he says, and right when he’s going to say something else, commotion from downstairs begins heading upstairs. He raises his eyebrows, turning his attention to the doorway. “Well, here comes the circus.”

Ralph turns to look, too, lips pursed in thought. “Funny,” he says, “Right before you snuck up on me I was thinking it was going to be a boring day.” That fear in his chest is gradually growing and he inhales sharply once more, tugging at his tie to loosen it a bit. His thoughts are suddenly rapid— and when had the room gotten so stifling? “Guess not.”

Harry barks a short laugh. “Always had trouble deciding whether I was bad luck or good luck,” he remarks. His expression drops, though, once he notices Ralph’s discomfort. With a slight frown, he reaches out to place a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “Hey, look at me,” he says, only continuing when Ralph does so. “Nobody’s gonna bust you. You’re safe here.” He lets go after another moment, crossing his arms and leaning back a little more casually. “‘Sides, if they do, I’ll knock ‘em to Pluto.”

Ralph opens his mouth to speak— nothing comes out and he shuts it. He reaches up to rub at his face and grumble, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars. After he counts to ten and the tightness in his chest is alleviated a bit from evening his breathing, he drops them to jam them in the pockets of his jacket. “Right,” he says, “I’m safe here. I’m fine. I—” He bites his tongue before he can keep rambling. “Yeah. Thanks.”

All Harry can respond with is a nod before the noisy crowd of detectives enters the squad room in waves. _Everybody_ is talking about the article, expressing their own opinions freely— surprisingly enough, none are even _close_ to disgust. There’s fear, concern, realization, but no discomfort with the fact that Cole is who he is. No— in fact, there’s _acceptance_ amongst them all.

The squad room isn’t the only source of all the commotion; even the hallways are bustling with conversation. It’s hard to hear Leary through all the noise, but James somehow manages. “This is fucking _bullshit,_ ” Leary hisses out, picking up the pace so he can catch up with James and Rusty. “Who the Hell gets off on this shit? I’ll shove my goddamn fist up their ass so fucking far that I’ll pull out their goddamn guts.”

James exhales deeply. “That isn’t a constructive way of handling things, Gordon,” he replies calmly, turning down the hallway towards the squad room. “We have to handle this carefully. This is a… sensitive situation.”

Leary scoffs. “No shit,” he says dryly, having to nearly run to keep up with the two much taller men. “Even then, I still want to find whoever did this and have a _nice_ little chat with ‘em. Y’know, over some coffee, a nice little date before I _blow their fucking brains out._ ”

Rusty gestures towards Leary. “See, I like his idea,” he says, “Whoever wrote that article deserves nothing less.”

“ _Finbarr,_ ” James says exasperatedly, giving both Rusty and Leary equally as disappointed looks, although it’s perhaps a bit more favorable towards Rusty. “You both know we can’t do that.” He turns his gaze forward— they’re growing closer to the squad room. “We have to handle this as professionally as possible, God help us all. I’ve already arranged for an appointment with a reporter, to _deny_ these allegations as fervently as possible.” He pauses just before entering the room, squeezing his eyes shut and moving to cross his heart.

Rusty puts a hand on his shoulder. “Things will work out,” he says, tone as soothing as it can possibly be coming from him, “I’m here with you, alright? You’re not doing this alone. _We’ll_ fix everything and we’ll all be able to live another day.”

James nods quietly, reaching up to give Rusty’s hand on his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Then, taking a deep breath, he enters the squad room. Nobody seems to notice at first, the crowd of detectives going on and on about that damned article— even the coroner, Malcolm Carruthers, and the head of Technical Services, Ray Pinker, are present. They’re hanging near the back of the room, out of sight and out of mind; just the way they like it.

Mal shakes his head, crossing his arms as his eyebrows furrow. “I can’t say I didn’t expect this,” he says dryly. “I was just hoping it wouldn’t actually _happen._ ”

Ray hums, watching all the commotion with mild interest. “And to _Cole,_ of all people,” he says, “Poor kid.”

After giving a slight nod, Mal goes silent. It’s a long time before he speaks again, but when he does— “I knew it ever since he first quoted Shakespeare,” he says, surprisingly nonchalant.

At that, Ray raises an eyebrow. “Is this really the time, Mal?”

Mal looks over with raised brows, although his usual deadpan expression is still in place. “What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

For a minute, Ray says nothing. Then, chuckling softly, he claps a hand on Mal’s shoulder. “Never change, Mal. Never change.”

Mal just responds with a rare smile. His attention snaps to the front of the room when James clears his throat, standing at the podium with a clipboard in his hands. Leary stands up front as well, teeth grinding and fists clenched at his sides as his eyes dart around the room almost anxiously.

“Settle down, everyone,” James calls out, and finally the commotion dies down enough for him to speak. He inhales deeply to continue, but the words die in his throat— his hand goes to rest on his chest, over a cross he wears under his shirt. It calms him enough to go on. “Now, I’m assuming that everyone here has seen the article,” he starts, hand dropping back to the podium, “and I’m sure everyone has some… _strong_ opinions about it.” He has to resist shooting Leary a _look_ with that, but he manages. “I and the other captains request that, for the sake of keeping the station free of unnecessary conflict, you avoid any and all talk of the article until—”

He’s cut off by the rapping of knuckles on the doorframe. One of the secretaries, a blonde in a red dress, is standing there with an armful of folders and wide eyes. “Um, sorry to interrupt,” she says, Southern accent coming through as she smiles nervously, “Chief Worrell is here to speak with you and Leary, Captain Donnelly.”

James turns at that, eyebrows furrowed as he shares a worried glance with Leary. “Of course,” he says, setting the clipboard in his hands down on the podium. He looks around for a moment, gaze settling on Rusty. “Rusty,” he says, although he knows he already has his attention, “you take care of the assignments for today. I have a feeling I’m going to be speaking to the Chief for a while.”

Leary, meanwhile, looks just about ready to snap. Instead, he inhales and exhales a deep breath, unclenching his fists— if one looked close enough, they’d spot small red crescent-marks in his palms. “Right,” he bites out, leaving the room without another word to James or anyone.

James _absolutely_ noticed the marks in his palms. He shakes his head with a sigh, heading after Leary and giving the secretary a courteous nod as he passes.

 _This is going to be a long morning,_ he grimaces.

 

* * *

 

Cole can barely hear the words being spoken to him as he paces back and forth, hand on his chin and icy blue eyes wide. Briefly, he feels them sting— _no._ He’s done well enough this far, he can’t cry _now._ With a shake of his head, he snaps back to reality, and the first voice he recognizes is Roy’s.

“We have to do something about this,” Roy says, and he’s gesturing vaguely, “They used the words _legal action_. Do you know how much trouble we’ll all be in if they go after Cole?”

Stefan looks between Roy and Cole, eyebrows raised. “Of course I do,” he says, “but right now, there’s not much else we can do but wait and see what happens.” A pause, as he gives Cole a concerned look. “I’m sure Donnelly’s already read it. He’ll at least get the press off your back.”

Roy hums in agreement. “I hate to admit it, but Stefan’s right,” he says, “He’s like some kind of— I don’t know, _angel of justice_ when it comes to these things.”

“He got Leary and me out of trouble,” Stefan says, and he gives Roy a brief look, eyebrows furrowed now. “So, yeah. We can trust he’ll do what he can to help.”

Cole nods, but it isn’t all there. “I— I suppose,” he says, oddly quiet. He clears his throat, putting his hand to his head. “God, I need to sit down.” Slowly, almost a little shakily, he moves to do just that— but there’s a knock at the door as soon as he lowers himself onto the couch. Letting out an exhausted sigh, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes tightly. “It’s Jack. I’m not getting it.” He reaches up to rub at his eyes, under his glasses— he started wearing them full-time after the headwound.

Roy moves to cross the room. “I’ve got it,” he says, and he opens the door. Sure enough, it’s Jack standing there on the other side, looking a little more than worse-for-wear. He’s always a bit disgruntled, but right now there’s something _especially_ bothered about the look on his face— whether it’s solely because of the news or something else, it’s unclear. “Well, buddy, you look like you’re going to fit right in.”

Jack just gives him an exasperated look. “You must be Roy,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to wait before pushing past him to make his way over to Cole. “How are you holding up?”

Cole turns to face Jack, trying to ignore the surprise in his eyes. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the glasses or the gauze wrapped loosely around his head, but he doesn’t care. “How do you think?” He asks, bringing his legs up to lean his whole body against the arm of the couch. “Everything’s falling apart, Jack.” He scoffs, shaking his head and rubbing at his forehead. “I suppose my wings of wax have melted in the heat of the sun.”

Jack stands there, arms crossed as he stares down at Cole. “Jesus, Cole,” he says, “Last time I saw you this torn up was—” He stops when Cole winces and doesn’t continue that train of thought. “Point is you’ll get through this. We’ll help you with whatever you need.”

“Okay,” Cole exhales sharply, removing his glasses and covering his eyes with his hands. “This is fine. It’s going to be fine.” He breathes in deep and breathes out in a long, _long_ sigh. Soon enough, he drops his hands from his face and squints up at what he _thinks_ is Jack, vision blurry. “Where’s Courtney? Aren’t you two a team, nowadays?”

Jack tenses up a bit. “We, uh— we got in a fight,” he says, and he winces slightly. “That wouldn’t be so bad if we weren’t… _more_ than a team.”

Cole opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. He shifts to wrap his arms around himself absentmindedly, eyebrows furrowing. “Oh,” he says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Jack— you shouldn’t be worrying about _me._ Is he still at home?”

For a minute, Jack says nothing. He tears his fingers through his hair, mumbling incoherently to himself. “I don’t know where he is,” he admits, finally, and he sounds… _ashamed_. He watches with furrowed brows as Roy suddenly swoops in and picks Cole up, moving him so he could sit where he’d been. Cole doesn’t even seem bothered by it; in fact, once he’s set down, he just leans into Roy’s shoulder as if nothing even happened. “Uh— I’ll go looking for him as soon as everything here is settled. Have you guys thought of what to do about this?”

Stefan is the one who speaks up, as he moves to sit on the other side of Cole, taking his hand in his. “We at least have somebody who can deal with the press,” he says, “Beyond that, we’re not sure. If you have any ideas, feel free to let us know.”

Jack looks between the three of them, something in his expression shifting. “I will,” he says, “You’ve got my number, Cole?”

Cole nods, reaching for his glasses just so he can look up at Jack with clear sight. “Of course,” he says, smiling softly. “Uh—” The smile drops into something a bit more serious. “I hope everything works out between you and Courtney.”

Jack inhales sharply. “Me too,” he says, and he averts his gaze. “I’m going to go look for him now. Just—” He shakes his head and moves to head for the door. “Just be careful, Cole.” It’s all he has to say before he’s gone.

The moment he leaves, Cole exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding, reaching out to pull Stefan closer as he leans a little more into Roy. They’re practically in a pile now. “Nothing’s going well for anyone today, it seems,” he comments idly.

Stefan lets out a low hum, nuzzling his face in Cole’s hair, as carefully as he can. He doesn’t seem to notice that Roy tenses up a bit on the other side of Cole. “Well, everything aside, I think we’re doing fine,” he says, “This is nice.”

Cole just subtly nudges Roy with his elbow, saying nothing as he grins knowingly up at the man. Roy stays silent, but it’s only for a minute. “I like it,” he says, “I mean, I’ve been wanting this.” A pause, as he inhales deeply and exhales. “With both of you.”

That gets Stefan’s attention. He lifts his head from Cole’s hair to look at Roy. “What?”

All of a sudden, Cole snorts. He covers his mouth, trying to suppress the laughter threatening to escape him. Glancing back at Stefan, he speaks with a slightly-muffled voice. “Stefan, it’s— _incredibly_ obvious.”

“Apparently not enough,” Roy says, “I like you _too,_ Stefan. Is that enough of a confession for you or do I need to prove it in other ways?” It seems that Stefan’s been left completely speechless, as he just sits there with his mouth hanging open. In the meantime, Cole is absolutely _losing it,_ his eyes watering for— finally— a _good_ reason this time around. With a roll of his eyes, Roy continues, “I guess _that_ got it through your head.”

“I—” Stefan stops and clears his throat. “So, what now, then?”

“Do we just—” Cole’s having a hard time, trying to speak in between gasps and wheezes. “Do we just… I don’t know, head to the bedroom?” He’s genuinely confused as to what comes next— in fact, he breaks down into more laughter. It’s slightly worrying, considering what the situation was _before_ Roy’s confession.

“Maybe later,” Roy says, and he gives Cole a concerned look, “Are you alright?”

Cole just continues to _laugh,_ tears rolling down his face now. “I don’t know!” He shouts, quite a bit more cheerful than it should be. He pulls both Roy and Stefan closer, still laughing and laughing with more and more tears coming in waves.

Stefan exchanges a glance with Roy before looking back at Cole. “Seriously, is everything okay, Cole?”

It’s then that Cole’s laughter breaks through to actual sobbing. “Everything’s— everything’s fine!” He says unconvincingly, voice breaking all the way. “My life’s falling apart, and I’m _fucked,_ but everything’s fine!” He opens his mouth to continue, but he just hiccups with another sob, burying his face into the chest of whomever’s closest; that would be Roy.

Roy inhales sharply, moving to rub at his back. “Come on, buddy,” he says, tone soft, “I think we need to get you to bed.”

“Yeah,” Stefan says, “You’ll feel better after you’ve slept some more.”

Pulling away to glance between them, Cole breathes a sharp intake of air and breathes out shakily, giving a weak nod. He’s been holding everything in for so _long—_ for the entire morning, in fact— he supposes that he’s finally… _cracked._ But it doesn’t feel nearly as bad as it would have felt without Roy or Stefan here on either side of him; with Roy’s confession, no matter how sudden it was, he finally doesn’t have to worry about having to choose between them. Not that he ever _would,_ but— it was a fear present in his mind for a long, long time.

Before his thoughts can stray too far, Cole snaps back to reality. “Alright,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “That sounds… good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we got impatient for stefroycole
> 
> \- riley


	18. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy, Cole, and Stefan finally act on their love for each other. Ralph is unsure about his relationship with Harry. Cole receives horrible news. Leary finds a way to absolve his anger. Courtney calls Jack past midnight.

 

The apartment is still.

Roy can’t bring himself to sleep— not when he’s so worried about Cole. As it was, he’s been sitting here most of the night, deep in his thoughts and keeping an eye on him. Every inhale, every movement, every little _thing_ sends his heart into a panic. He doesn’t know how Stefan’s managing to sleep through this when his own nerves are so shot. They’d sat and talked after they first got Cole to bed— about this and that and the situation at hand. Stefan didn’t seem nearly as frazzled, but— Roy was familiar with putting on fronts.

Cole shifts beside him and there goes his heart again, ramming itself against his ribcage like it has something to prove. It slows to a more reasonable pace, though, when Cole merely settles back down and curls closer to him. He’s fine. _He’s fine_. Nothing to worry about.

No matter how many times he tells himself that, he still has a hard time believing it. He curses internally at how _anxious_ he is. He’s always anxious, but— this is a new level of bullshit, honestly.

He’s taken out of his thoughts by Cole stirring a little more, then— he’s staring at Roy with those icy eyes, still as piercing as ever in the darkness of the bedroom. A smile spreads across Cole’s face the moment he recognizes the man in front of him. “Roy,” he whispers, careful not to disturb the sleeping form of Stefan behind him, “you’re awake?”

Roy takes a minute to will his heart to stop racing. “I guess so,” he whispers back, and absentmindedly, he reaches out to brush his hand against Cole’s cheek. “Are you feeling any better?”

Cole leans into Roy’s hand, eyes fluttering shut as he just takes it in. “Just a bit,” he says, quiet and soft. “I— I know I should be more frightened about the news and all, but… I don’t see how I can be, with both of you here.” He exhales amusedly through his nose, eyes opening back up to focus on Roy.

Roy hums and despite himself, a smile tugs at his lips. He leans in to press a feather-light kiss to Cole’s forehead. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, “All three of us.” A pause, as he inhales sharply. “God, I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” Cole returns, his smile becoming a wide grin. He lets out a small, gentle laugh— one that makes Roy’s heart flutter. “It feels _amazing_ to be able to say that.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Roy asks, and he rubs his nose against Cole’s. “I’m glad we’re able to. Honestly, after the…” He stops, eyebrows furrowing. “… _y’know,_ I wondered if I’d ever get the chance.”

Cole nods, leaning in even further so that his lips are mere inches from Roy’s. “Well,” he starts, eyes closing again as he presses their foreheads together. “I’m still here. Every day is a new chance.”

Roy inhales deeply, one hand carefully going to the back of Cole’s head. “I hope you know that just means I’m going to take every moment to say it,” he mumbles, and he closes the gap between them. Cole fully welcomes the kiss— maybe a little too eagerly, seeing as he immediately parts his lips to allow for Roy’s tongue. Roy is more than happy to comply, the hand on his head dropping to the small of his back instead, pulling him closer. Cole can’t stop the soft whine from rising out of his throat, neither can he stop the hand snaking down the front of Roy’s body, slipping under the waistband of his—

“Isn’t it a little late for this?” comes Stefan’s groggy voice on the other side of Cole.

Suddenly, Cole breaks away, face bright red as he glances over his shoulder. “Uh—” His hand doesn’t move from Roy’s boxers. Well, it definitely _moves,_ but it doesn’t move _out._ “ _Hi,_ honey,” he says a bit sheepishly, nervous grin crossing his face.

Roy opens his mouth to speak— all that comes out is a low groan. At that, Stefan just raises his eyebrows. “Do you two want to get a room?” He asks, tone sarcastic, “I can go sleep on the couch.”

Before Cole can really think about the words coming out of his mouth, he retorts, “I don’t know, would you like to join us?” He seems to realize what he’s said a moment later, clamping his mouth shut and pursing his lips. He clears his throat after a beat of silence. “…I mean, it’d wake you up.”

Stefan seems to be far more alert than he was a second ago. “Actually,” he starts, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Well,” Roy says, and he bites back another groan, “Happy birthday to me.”

 

* * *

 

Ralph wakes up in Harry’s arms.

He’s not surprised. They’d spent pretty much every night together for the past week, and a couple others before that. Inhaling deeply, he lets his eyes slide shut and shifts closer, trying to leech what body warmth he could from Harry. Five more minutes of this. That’s all he wants.

Of course, he could only be so lucky, as Harry begins to stir. Ralph bites back the urge to swear. Mumbling something incoherent, Harry moves to pull Ralph even deeper into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his head. “Good morning,” he finally manages to get out, voice a little muffled by the smaller man’s hair. “Sleep well?”

Ralph hums, blinking his eyes back open. “Morning,” he says, and he twists around to look at him, “I slept fine, I guess. What about you?”

Harry reaches up to brush a few strands of hair out of Ralph’s face, the gesture almost _loving._ “Better than I have in a while,” he says, burying his face into the juncture where Ralph’s neck meets his shoulder and pressing a gentle kiss over a night-old bite.

At that, Ralph breathes in a sharp intake of air. There’s only three words he wants to say right now, but he’s not sure if he should— or if Harry even wants to hear them. He pushes his thoughts away. “Guess I’m good company, huh?” He says, and he lets out a soft laugh. “I hope I am, at least. We’ve been doing this for a while now.”

Harry chuckles quietly in return, moving so he’s eye-level with Ralph. “You’re good at what you do, pal,” he says, and it’s surprisingly affectionate for such a friendly nickname. “Got some good looks all around, too.” He punctuates that sentence with a firm squeeze of Ralph’s behind.

Those three words are practically a mantra in Ralph’s mind now, and it’s taking all his willpower not to let them slip. In an attempt to distract himself, he moves to close the gap between them without another thought, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. When he pulls back for a brief moment, he says, “You’re not too bad to look at, yourself.”

With another chuckle, Harry moves to tilt Ralph’s face towards him, thumb to his chin. “I’m flattered,” he says, tone deeply suggestive. Then, leaning in, he resumes where they had left off a moment prior. Ralph makes a soft noise, one hand sliding up to thread itself in Harry’s dark locks. Harry deepens the kiss in response, his tongue finding its way into Ralph’s mouth, almost as if he’s intentionally prodding at the boundaries. That gets him a louder, breathier moan from Ralph, as he shifts to pull Harry on top of him instead.

Harry can’t help but let out an amused hum into the other’s mouth, pulling away for a single moment. “We’re going to be late for work, y’know. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Ralph almost whines at the loss of contact. Instead, he huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t care,” he says, fingers digging into Harry’s back and leaving behind _new_ red streaks, “They won’t miss us _much_.”

Snorting, Harry smirks that _frustrating_ smirk of his down at Ralph. “You’ve got quite the point, there,” he concedes rather slyly. With that, he moves to capture Ralph’s lips in his.

 

* * *

 

Cole’s day has been just divine.

Waking up in the arms of both Roy and Stefan, with Stefan’s face buried in the back of his head and Roy’s chin on the top of his head, was pure and absolute _bliss._ Nothing in his life could ever top that moment, even if he felt a little sore after the night they had. God, though, it was _incredible._ They both handled him with such care, only forgoing such caution when he had asked them to, _begged_ them to. The memories of last night left him with a giddy smile on his face and cheeks flushed, which was only intensified when the two on either side of him awakened and _both_ tried to pull him closer.

Despite how much they all wanted to stay in that bed together, they begrudgingly got up and fell into their daily routines. Roy fit in quite nicely; apparently, his schedule’s just as flexible as he is. There was a shower, then breakfast and coffee, and a little bit of downtime to just _talk_ and appreciate being with each other. But it wasn’t long before Roy and Stefan had to leave for work, Stefan departing with a simple kiss to Cole’s cheek and Roy departing with a kiss that only ended when Stefan pulled him off of Cole with a laugh.

Cole never thought he could love two people as much as he does now. It’s new and different and by _God,_ does it feel _good._

In the late morning, right before the clock hits noon, the phone begins to ring. Cole goes to answer it without an ounce of hesitation, expecting to hear either Roy or Stefan checking in on him— but instead, he hears James. “Is this where to reach Cole Phelps?” He sounds a little on edge.

“Uh— yes, this is it,” Cole says, shifting to lean against the wall. “What’s wrong, Captain?”

James goes silent for what feels like forever. Then, he sighs. “Lad, you’re going to have to come in today.” His tone has considerably softened, almost as if he’s trying to avoid making Cole panic. “It’s— about the article.”

Cole’s stomach drops, chest tightening as his heart feels like it’s about to stop. He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes until a moment later, stuttery and confused. “I— I suppose I can do that, yes, but— Captain, what’s going on?”

The further silence that follows is almost stifling. With another deep breath, the same kind of cleansing inhalation and exhalation that he always takes before moving to cross his heart, he continues. “The Chief has decided to put you on suspension while the allegations made against you are being investigated,” James says, putting it as gently as he can. “He wants you to come in today and turn in your badge and your gun—”

Cole hangs up the phone right then and there, eyes wide and frantic as his breathing quickens with the pulse of his heart. _Oh my God._ Tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes, a stinging sensation that spreads to his nose, warmth rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The phone rings again, but he keeps it held down on the receiver, almost hard enough to _break_ it. He lifts the phone only to slam it back down, moving to dial the direct number to the Vice room when another call doesn’t come.

When the line clicks, he hears Colmyer’s voice on the other end. “Vice squad room, this is Captain Colmyer,” he says, already fiercely disinterested in whatever this could be about. “Who is it—”

“Detective Phelps,” Cole says, inadvertently cutting him off. It’s hard to keep the sheer _panic_ out of his voice, especially since it’s consumed his entire being. “Colmyer— _please,_ is Roy there? It’s— it’s important.”

Colmyer scoffs. “Sure,” he says, and he lowers the phone. He can be heard calling Roy over, telling him that it’s Cole and that it _“sounds urgent,”_ and then—

“Cole,” Roy says, “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

“Donnelly just called, I’m—” It’s then that the dam breaks, Cole’s voice wavering as the tears threatening to fall begin to roll down his cheeks. “I’m supposed to turn in my things, the— the Chief saw the article, and—”

Now it was Roy’s turn to sound panicked. “Hey, _shh,_ it’s okay,” he says, “I mean, it’s not, but— do you want me to come home? I’m not working on anything important.” A pause, as he takes a minute to yell something over his shoulder at Colmyer. He returns his attention to Cole. “Arch can shove his complaints where the sun don’t shine. I’ll be there as soon as possible if you need me.”

“ _Please,_ ” Cole breathes, and he inhales to speak again— but it comes out in a thready wheeze as he feels himself become overwhelmed with another flood of _fear._ “Roy— I can’t drive there on my own, I— I need you to help me. I have to turn everything in _today._ ”

“I’m gonna head out right now, okay?” Roy says, and there’s some shuffling in the background. “Just— sit tight. It’ll only be a few minutes.” Another pause. “I love you. Try and relax.” It’s all he has to say before hanging up.

For a long time, Cole stares at the phone with wide, wide eyes. He doesn’t register setting it down on the receiver, nor does he recognize that he’s sliding to the floor with his back to the wall, the old wound sending a stabbing ache around his skull as he near-hyperventilates. There’s a mantra of _this isn’t happening_ running through his mind, denial after denial, rushing in until he feels as if he might suffocate beneath the waves.

Shoving his face into his hands, Cole begins to sob.

 

* * *

 

Roy barely registers anything he’s doing.

He’d somehow made it downstairs to the Homicide department long enough to talk to Stefan about the situation. It took a bit of convincing to get the other man to even consider staying put, but he manages and before he knows it, he’s in his car. He might’ve gone a bit over the speed limit at some point; he doesn’t know and he figures as long as he doesn’t crash, it doesn’t matter right now.

It’s not long before he finds himself parking in front of the apartment building and all but running for the elevator. The damned thing seems to take _forever_ getting him to the right floor and Roy bites back the urge to groan, nerves completely shot yet again. It stops for another resident and he _does_ groan that time, not caring that the older woman shoots him an ugly look. Finally, the doors open and he quickly makes his way down the hall, coming to a complete stop in front of the apartment.

He raises his hand to knock and briefly, he makes a mental note to ask Stefan about extra keys. There’s the sound of stumbling and a quiet _“fuck,”_ and then the door swings open to reveal a very distraught Cole, cheeks damp and eyes puffy. He opens his mouth to speak— shuts it and opts to sniff instead, eyes flicking to the floor. “Sorry you have to see me like this,” he mumbles, shuffling his feet a little.

Roy shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” he says, and he reaches out to put a hand on Cole’s face, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re going through a lot right now and you’re _allowed_ to be upset about it.” He rubs his thumb against his cheek. “Are you ready to go or do you need a minute?”

Cole inhales sharply, reaching up to rest his hand over Roy’s as he leans into his palm. “I— I need to calm down,” he says, and he’s moving to pull Roy inside with him, not wanting to break contact.

Roy hums and kicks the door shut behind him. “Take as long as you need,” he murmurs, and he leans in to rest his forehead against Cole’s, “I’ll be by your side every step of the way. Stefan, too— he said he’ll be waiting for us at the station.”

“Thank God,” Cole exhales, wrapping his arms around Roy’s neck and breathing in deep, taking in all that he can of the other man. He breathes out in a quiet, weary laugh. “I’m— scared, Roy. I’m _terrified._ This is one of the worst possible things that could _happen_ right now.”

Roy holds onto him tightly, burying his face in his hair for a moment. “I know,” he says, “We’re gonna figure it out, I promise. It’s probably hard to believe right now, but— we will.” He presses a kiss to the top of his head before continuing. “It’ll go away.”

“Will it?” Cole stares up at Roy with those piercing blue eyes of his, filled with worry and a flicker of naive hope. He’s usually so put-together— it’s strange to see him this way. “I’ve dedicated everything within me to this job, you know? I don’t—” He swallows hard. “I don’t want it all to be for naught.”

“Listen,” Roy says, and he cups Cole’s face in his hands, keeping his gaze steady. “It won’t be. I’ll make sure of it.”

Cole lets his eyes flutter shut, completely melting into Roy’s touch. He takes another deep breath— he’s appreciating how _close_ they are right now. “I trust you,” he says finally, standing on the tips of his toes and pressing a soft kiss to Roy’s lips, gentle and fleeting. “I _love_ you.”

“I love you more,” Roy says, rubbing his nose against Cole’s, “Always will.” He inhales deeply before continuing. “Are you ready now? Chief’s an impatient man, unfortunately, and I don’t think we want to piss him off further.”

Breathing a quiet hum, Cole nods. “With you and Stefan by my side, I’m ready for _anything._ ”

 

* * *

 

Even now, when he’s seven shots in and slamming back his eighth, Leary is still absolutely fucking _livid._

This whole situation with Cole yesterday has left him pissed off, and he’s _been_ pissed off ever since James told him about it and he damn near punched a hole in the wall. Hell, he genuinely almost did— he put a crack in that wall, and by extension he cracked something in his hand. The meeting with the Chief only served to make his rage burn even stronger, the flames of fury threatening to consume him. God, that bastard just didn’t _get_ it; he was disgusted, dead-set on firing Cole and burying him even more. The only thing that swayed him was James insisting that the allegations were just that— _allegations—_ and that Cole was the best detective they had on the LAPD. Leary could only sit there in fiery silence, listening, _still_ angry even when Worrell decided on suspension instead.

He needed a drink. That’s as much as he knew then, that’s as much as he knows now. With his aching wrapped hand, he slides his shot glass back to Lottie. “Another!” He nearly barks, feeling guilt creep up his spine when the boy jumps at the word. Exhaling sharply, he runs a hand down his face. “Sorry, Lots. Another. Please.”

Lottie offers him a tired smile. “Of course, Gord,” he says as softly as possible— then, he hesitates. “Do you want more of the same? We don’t have any more out here, but… there’s some in the back.” He sounds tentative; he most likely doesn’t want Leary to keel over.

Little does he know, that’s exactly what _Leary_ wants. “Yeah, sure,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “If you’ve got anything stronger, just slide the whole bottle my way. I don’t fucking care. I’ll drink it all.” He doesn’t realize he’s grumbling before it’s too late. Breathing out an irritated sigh, he runs his hand down his face yet again.

Pursing his lips, Lottie gives a reluctant nod. “Alright, I guess,” he says, stepping away from the bar and disappearing into the back, leaving Leary alone.

Or, at least, he _thinks_ he’s alone. There’s suddenly another man at his side, grumbling about something incoherent. “Did Lots go in the back?” He asks, and immediately, Leary catches the Irish tinge to his words. “I need a drink if I’m going to deal with _dramatic fuckin’ fools!_ ” Those last three words are shouted in the direction of the stage, where the band is packing up their instruments for the night. He slumps against the bar, then, one hand on his cheek. “Lord almighty.”

Leary throws a glance over his shoulder at first with a snort, fully intending to respond, but when he brings his gaze to the man, he finds himself without words. The first thing he notices is the deep emerald hues of his eyes, intense, that shade of irresistible _green_ the sea becomes at a special time of day. Next, he takes note of the dark, almost black hair, swept back rather messily with strands hanging in his face. It’s then that Leary registers how _tall_ the stranger is, much taller than he is, even though he _is_ pretty short to begin with. His eyes drag across the man’s form, trailing down to his arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and leaving his awfully _toned_ forearms out for everyone to see. It isn’t often that Leary’s left with his mouth dry, but God _damn,_ this living embodiment of the _tall dark stranger_ is making his mind race with quite lewd imagery— most prevalently, the man on his knees beneath Leary, hands working on unbuttoning his pants with those intense green eyes staring right back up at him.

Letting out a short laugh, Leary decides to play it cool, leaning one elbow on the bar as he gives the man another appreciative once-over. “Yeah, he did,” he says, raising a brow. “Went to get somethin’ for me.” He sends another glance in the way of the band, breathing out another laugh, more of a _“huh”_ this time. It’s then that he returns his full attention to the man, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Y’know, I’ve seen you pretty often around here. You’re that dancer, ain’t you?”

The man raises an eyebrow, hand still on his cheek as he leans against the bar. “When I’m not on keys,” he says, “Or filling in for somebody else.” A pause, as those emerald eyes stay on him, intent and focused. “Flattered to know you could pick me out of the crowd, though.” He holds out his other hand, then, and offers Leary an all-too-charming smile. “Ronan McAllister. You?”

With a sly grin, Leary reaches out to give a firm shake, letting it linger for a moment longer than what’s appropriate. “Gordon Leary,” he says, and when he lets go he makes sure to let his fingers brush almost teasingly across Ronan’s palm. He snorts, leaning back on the bar. “ _Little seal,_ huh?”

At that, a bit of color spreads across Ronan’s cheeks— faint enough that anybody who wasn’t paying attention wouldn’t notice. “It’s a family name,” he says, and he runs a hand back through his hair. All it does is dishevel it further. “I was named after my grandfather and my sister got Aileen as a middle name for our grandmother.”

“Is that so?” Leary raises his eyebrows, that grin refusing to leave his face— in fact, it turns into one of his signature smirks: a sleazy side-smile that seems to know _just_ enough to make someone quiver, but _just_ too little to make them sweat. “I was named Gordon after my _great-_ grandfather, much to my own father’s dismay.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I suppose I got my bullheadedness from my mother, now that I think about it.”

Ronan hums and Leary doesn’t miss the fact that he’s leaning in closer to him— it seems that he’s interested in more ways than one. “It’s a nice name,” he says, “Suits you, I think, but I don’t know you well enough to say for sure.” His eyes dip lower for the briefest of moments before coming back up. “I wouldn’t mind changing that.”

Leary gives him that knowing smirk, and he’s about to respond when suddenly Lottie’s back at the bar. He hesitantly slides Leary a half-empty bottle of _Johnnie Walker_ brand scotch, the red label variety. “Here you go, Gordie,” he says, sounding not very excited to be giving Leary something so strong. He quickly chases it away upon noticing Ronan there beside him, smiling brightly as if nothing happened. “Hey there, Ronan! What’re you looking for?”

“Well,” Ronan starts, only halfway turning his attention towards Lottie, “Bill and Louis are going at it again, so I was looking for a drink.” He shoots Leary a lopsided grin. “Think I found something better.”

Leary doesn’t see the way Lottie gapes, not when he’s so _captivated_ by Ronan’s every movement, completely taken in by the grin on his face and the oceanic green in his eyes. Lottie clears his throat. “Well,” he starts, forcing a smile towards them both. “I’ll be tending to the other patrons, then. Just— wave for me if you need me.” He leaves them without another word, not even waiting for a response.

Watching him go, Leary gives a slight shrug of his shoulders and moves to grab the bottle by its neck, unscrewing the cap with a pop and immediately taking a greedy swig. Unfazed, he lowers the bottle from his lips and holds it out to Ronan. “Strongest brand of scotch in the world,” he remarks, chuckling lowly and shaking his head. “Eight shots in and I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Ronan raises an eyebrow, accepting the bottle and taking a swig of his own. “Maybe slow your roll,” he says, and he’s holding the bottle out to Leary anyway. “If this ends up going anywhere, I want you to be able to remember it.” His words are joking, but there’s something suggestive underneath.

Leary laughs, taking back the bottle and taking a much easier sip than before. “You interested?” He asks, skipping all of the pleasantries, diving right in with reckless abandon. Not that he’s ever done anything _without_ reckless abandon, that is. That same smirk playing at his lips, his tone drops low and rough. “Here I was, thinkin’ you didn’t notice how I was looking at you.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Ronan says, eyes dipping down to Leary’s lips again. This time, he doesn’t bother to bring them back up right away. “Kind of hard not to. You’re not very subtle.” He finally brings his gaze up again, eyes locking with Leary’s. “I _am_ interested, though, if you are.”

“Damn right I am,” Leary says, setting the bottle back on the bar and capping it. When his hands are free, he reaches out to clap a hand on Ronan’s shoulder, fingers dragging teasingly down his arm. His next words come out in what can only be described as a _purr._ “My place or yours?”

“Yours is perfect,” Ronan says, pushing away from the bar and standing at his full height, Leary following in suit. He glances over his shoulder at the band before snapping his attention back down to the much shorter man. “Let me just grab my things and we can go.”

Leary nods, gesturing for him to hurry it up— though, there’s something akin to _fondness_ behind it. “Go ahead, but—” His smirk turns into a wicked grin. “I’ll have you know I’m not a very patient man.”

“I’m sure I’m going to learn that,” is all Ronan has to say before he turns on his heel to cross the room.

Grin still in place, Leary leans back against the bar. Something in the back of his mind is telling him that this is a bad idea; not only is he still pissed, it’s barely even been a _week_ since… _no._ He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough to see pure hot white, nails digging into his palms as he clenches his fists, slotting right into the old crescent-shaped marks of yesterday and years past. _Don’t think about him right now. Only— what’s his name, again? Ronan?_ Despite himself, Leary chuckles and shakes his head— it’s much less confident, masking guilt and a little bit of shame.

If that’s how guilty he feels just by the nagging of his own mind… it’s a damn good thing he didn’t see the way Lottie looked at them.

 

* * *

 

Deep into the night, Jack’s phone begins to ring.

He all but lunges for it, scrambling to put the phone to his ear. “Jack Kelso speaking,” he says, and God, he’s _praying_ for Courtney’s voice on the other line.

His prayers are answered, but— not in the way he was hoping. “ _Hey,_ Jackie,” Courtney slurs, breathing out a bubbly laugh. “What’re you doing up so late?” With all of his words running together and how he just keeps _giggling,_ it’s painfully obvious how wasted he is.

Jack tries to fight back the increasing concern long enough to speak. “Worrying about _you,_ Courtney,” he says. “Where are you? I was all over the city trying to find you.” He inhales sharply. “Are you drunk?”

Courtney laughs again. “Yeah,” he hums, and there’s the sound of fabric shifting on the other end. “I spent all day at this _bar_ in the middle of nowhere.” He pauses. “Not in the middle of, like, Texas-nowhere. Everything ‘round it’s all closed.”

Running a hand back through his hair, Jack squeezes his eyes shut. “Courtney,” he starts, “Is there anything recognizable nearby? I’m going to come get you.”

“It’s got a phone booth in front of it,” Courtney says, and he goes silent. “Um…” He’s presumably trying to identify anything else. Suddenly, he giggles. “I dunno, I can’t read the name.”

“Please, Courtney, work with me here,” Jack says, and he can’t help the desperation that slips into his tone. He bites his tongue and shakes his head. “You know what, just stay put. If you stay where I can see you, I’ll be able to find you.”

Courtney hums. “Okay,” he mumbles. There’s another laugh that bubbles out of his chest. “I think you better _hurry,_ ” he slurs, “a guy threatened to stab me ‘fore I got out here.”

At that, Jack’s not sure whether to feel worried or irritated. He decides on the former. “You just can’t go anywhere without getting into trouble, can you?” He asks, his words weak and exhausted. “Try not to actually get stabbed before I get there. _Please_.”

Courtney slurs out something unintelligible, before giggling _again_ and giving a proper response. “ _Okay,_ ” he says, drawing out the _‘a.’_ He goes silent for a while, and it’s possible that he’s hung up, but then— “I love you, Jackie.” It’s surprisingly sincere and the single clearest thing he’s said during the entire phone call.

All it does is send a new pang of guilt through Jack’s heart. “I love you too, Courtney,” he says, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Please stay safe.” Without another word, he hangs up.

 _Great_. If he wasn’t already worried before, he sure is now.

 

* * *

 

In his intoxicated state, Courtney leans his whole weight on the wall of the phone booth, eyes closed as he begins to drift in and out of consciousness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting for Jack; he _should_ be too drunk to care, but no. He’s been fighting back tears the whole time, utterly convinced that Jack must’ve given up and left him behind. It wouldn’t surprise Courtney; after all, everything he’s ever done his entire life is fuck up. He doesn’t blame Jack for getting angry, honestly— he would’ve gotten angry at himself, too. Actually, he _is_ angry at himself! So that’s one thing down, he guesses.

Courtney doesn’t realize he’s crying until it’s too late, warm tears rolling down his cheeks as he hiccups and sobs, sinking down to the floor of the phone booth. Well, he’s definitely awake _now._

That’s probably a good thing, though, as it’s then that Jack’s car pulls up. He wastes no time in getting out, accidentally slamming the driver’s side door in his haste to get to Courtney. “Hey,” he says, and he’s crouching down to Courtney’s level, reaching out to put a hand on his face. “I’m here now. Everything’s fine.” He rubs his thumb against his cheek. His next words come tumbling out, as if he’s been holding them in all day— and he probably has. “Look, I’m sorry for getting mad. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I love you and I want you around and— I know you probably don’t believe me because I have a hard time showing it, but I do, okay?”  

Before he can properly register what he’s doing, Courtney leans into Jack’s palm, still crying as he tries desperately to steady himself and _stop._ That only serves to make it worse— he feels _bad_ for crying, now. “It’s okay,” he chokes out, his inebriation making him even harder to understand. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I—” He pauses, breath stuttering as he inhales. “I _love_ you, Jackie. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, I— I felt _horrible_ all day, I…” He’s about to continue, but he only whimpers as fresh tears run down his face.

“Courtney, _shh,_ it’s okay,” Jack says, wiping away his tears and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Everything’s fine. I’m here and I’m not leaving.” He inhales deeply and exhales. “I’m going to take you home and you can sleep it off. We can talk more in the morning.”

Courtney nods feverishly, pacified immediately by the kiss to his forehead. “Okay,” he manages to get out, “okay, I— yeah. That sounds… nice.” For the first time today, he smiles, eyes fluttering open to look up at Jack. “Um— can you help me up?”

Jack nods, moving to stand at his full height before helping Courtney to his feet. He keeps his hands on him long enough to make sure he’s steady. “You can walk, right?”

“I— I guess?” Courtney says, but he doesn’t sound all that sure. As it is, he’s leaning his full weight into Jack, head on his shoulder. He lets out a weak laugh. “I kinda, uh… fell into the phone booth earlier.”

Jack hums softly, absentmindedly reaching up to run his fingers through Courtney’s hair. “I can carry you if you need me to,” he says, “It’s not like I’ve never done it before.”

Courtney goes silent for a moment, almost as if he’s thinking it over. Then, he’s staring up at Jack with those bright blue eyes of his. “ _Please,_ ” it’s less of a question and more of a beg.

All Jack does is nod before sweeping Courtney off his feet and carrying him to the car.


	19. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions boil past their limits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, thank you so much for sticking with us for so long! i wanted to make a note this chapter because this is a pretty special occasion for us; we're officially the wordiest fic in the tag!!
> 
> hope y'all enjoy this chapter! it's quite the emotional rollercoaster :)
> 
> \- riley

Jack breaks with the morning.

He’s been up all night at Courtney’s side and even after the other man fell asleep, he couldn’t bring himself to close his own eyes. All he’d done was pace back and forth, deep in thought. There’s a lot on his mind, right now. Courtney’s one thing, and their fight is another. Even now, Jack can’t chase away the immense guilt he feels.  _You fucked up,_ a voice in the back of his head screams. _If you’re not careful, you’ll lose him, too._

His chest is tight. With a shaky breath, he sinks down into the floor, leaning back against the bed. _You’ll lose him, too._ Too is the keyword there. God, he’d thought he’d gotten over Cole, but… ever since he’d come back into his life, he was starting to realize that wasn’t the case. It does nothing to ease that gnawing feeling in his gut. He loves Courtney. He _knows_ he does, and that says a lot, considering Jack’s never been good at figuring out his own emotions. The thing is… he still has feelings for Cole. He doubts they ever really went away, honestly— they just ended up being masked by his anger and forgotten over the years. Why is he even still hung up over him? Cole never loved him as much as he loved…

 _Hank._ There was somebody else he’d lost. Just like that, the tightness in his chest is suddenly ten times worse. He feels like he’s suffocating, now, and every breath he takes is like a knife to his lungs. He misses him. Jack hasn’t been able to admit that to himself— he never got the chance to even _think_ about it, actually. He’d put Cole first out of fear that he’d lose him just the same way and— well, look at how _that_ turned out. Squeezing his eyes shut and willing away the sting, he inhales sharply. He exhales with a wheeze. More guilt, and this time over the fact he never properly mourned the man he once loved— _still_ loves. He’d never even visited his grave and that fact feels like another sharp stab to the chest.

The sting in his eyes isn’t going away. Everything is piling up and threatening to topple over. He’s tired, he’s stressed, he wants respite from it all, but he knows he won’t get it. He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, fingers digging into his scalp. All at once, it comes crashing down. Hot tears roll down his face and despite himself, he lets out a sob.

Behind him, blankets shift. Jack bites down on his tongue in an attempt to stop crying. It doesn’t work, of course, and he just squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He doesn’t want Courtney to wake up and see him like this; he’s supposed to be the strong one who keeps things together. Right now, though, he doesn’t _feel_ very strong and the tears just continue to fall.  

There’s an eerily long silence, and then— “Jack?” Courtney sounds much more sober than he was when he fell asleep. At any other time, that’d be a good thing.

Jack breathes in a sharp intake of air, almost gasping for it, and exhales. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a choked noise and he lifts his head up to rub at his wet face. After counting to ten and trying to steady his breathing, he says, “Go— go back to sleep, Courtney.”

He can feel Courtney’s eyes on the back of his head, staring in disbelief. “No, no, no,” he says, and Jack hears him climb out of bed. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to chase away the sting, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. When his eyes snap back open, Courtney’s crouched in front of him, face-to-face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Jack, you—” He swallows hard, carefully placing his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You never cry.”

“I—” Jack shakes his head and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. The tears just won’t _stop_. “God, Courtney, I— I don’t know. I was just— I was just thinking.” A pause, as he tries to calm down and stop gasping out his words. “About you. About Cole. About—” He breaks down again before he can even finish the sentence, and he’s never felt more _defeated_ in his life. “ _Hank._ I was thinking about Hank and I—” He just can’t get the words out, stuck in his throat and turning to ash on his tongue. When he finally continues, it’s punctuated with a sob. “I _miss_ him.”

Courtney just _stares,_ eyes wide and eyebrows knit together in concern. His hands slide up to cup Jack’s face. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, and when their gazes meet, he holds eye contact— a rare gesture from him. “It’s _okay,_ Jack. It’s okay to miss him, it’s— it’s okay to get all this out.” He rubs at Jack’s cheek softly with his thumb, frowning a little at the worrying dampness. “Please— don’t hold it in anymore. I’m _here_ for you, okay? I swear to God, I’ll always be.”

Jack nods weakly. “I know. I—” He inhales deeply and exhales with a shaky, almost manic laugh. “It’s almost been three years and I’ve never visited his grave once. How awful is that? _I’m_ awful, Courtney.” Jack doesn’t give him a chance to argue against that. “God, I’m awful! What kind of asshole doesn’t take the time to— to fucking _grieve_ the man he loves? I didn’t even spare him a single Goddamn thought after he— after he—” He can’t bring himself to say it. “I lost him, and I lost Cole, and I’m— I’m probably going to lose you, too, eventually. You deserve better than—” He pauses to gesture to all of him. There’s still tears rolling down his cheeks. “This. You deserve better than this.”

Courtney shakes his head vigorously. “No, Jack— you’re _not_ awful,” he says, moving to pull Jack into a desperate embrace and ignoring the resistance. One hand moves to the back of his head and the other rubs his back softly, tenderly. “You’re not going to lose me. I— _I_ was afraid I’d lose _you._ ” He lets his eyes flutter shut, fingers threading into Jack’s dark hair. “I _love_ you, Jack. I love you more than I could ever put into words, and I don’t— I don’t _care_ if I deserve better.” He inhales deeply, his hold on Jack tightening ever-so-slightly. “I only want _you._ ”

For a long time, Jack says nothing— just lets himself cry on Courtney, face buried in his shoulder and fingers digging into his shirt. Gradually, the tears come to a stop and his breathing starts to even out. He mumbles something, but it’s too muffled to make out. Then, finally, he pulls back a bit. “I love you,” he says, “I promise I do. I just… haven’t had time to process _any_ of this.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t give myself a chance to. I guess with everything that’s been going on, it finally hit me.”

Nodding, Courtney keeps Jack held close. “You have your chance _now,_ Jack,” he says, dropping his head to press a kiss to the other man’s collarbone. “We’re not in Okinawa anymore, it’s _over._ ” He inhales and exhales a deep breath. “We’re _home._ ”

“We’re home,” Jack echoes, “We’re home and I’m…” A soft laugh, as his eyes flutter shut. “I’m so tired.”

Courtney laughs in turn, gentle and quiet. “Then,” he starts, “let’s go back to bed, yeah?” He gives Jack another feather-light kiss, this time on his cheek. “I, uh, can feel a hangover coming on.” He lets out another laugh.

“Bed sounds good,” Jack mumbles.

 

* * *

 

As he stares himself down in the restroom mirror, there’s a single thought on Leary’s mind: _what the fuck was I thinking?_

Last night with that McAllister kid only served to make him feel worse. God, he couldn’t even remember the guy’s _name—_ he was only thinking about Stefan or Keith, and he’s _convinced_ that he groaned out one of their names instead. Grumbling incoherently, he drops his head into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. The more he dwells on it, the more he feels like a right bastard.

The whole situation has left a horrible taste in his mouth. Honestly, he’d rather have that night lost to drunken memory— and he _hates_ forgetting escapades. He just feels… _scummy._ He feels like he might’ve taken advantage of the poor guy, something that he swore to himself he’d _never_ do. Leary bites out another frustrated groan, eyes screwed tightly shut as he feels his heart sink into his stomach.

“Gordon, you fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself, completely unaware of the door being wide open.

There’s the tapping of knuckles on the doorframe, and the subject of his thoughts clearing his throat cuts through. “Sorry,” Ronan— _that’s_ his name— says. “Just wanted to tell you I was leaving.”

Leary lifts his head to look the younger man in the eyes, his expression immediately softening. “No, it’s—” He bites his tongue to keep the desperation from coming through. “It’s… fine. You can stay, too.” Swallowing hard, he has to tear his gaze away from those beautiful emerald eyes before he does something he might regret. His voice is suddenly hoarse. “Your choice.”

Ronan quirks an eyebrow, still leaning against the doorframe— almost as if he’s not sure if he should come too close. He’s absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the wood. “Most men usually want me gone before it’s too light out,” he remarks, and he hums slightly, “I wouldn’t mind sticking around if you want me. You seem like you need some company right now, as it is.” A pause, as if he’s thinking. “Be it romantic or friendly.”

At that, Leary's entire body untenses. He almost _wilts_ — this is the most vulnerable anyone's ever seen him. With a sigh, he reaches up to rub at his tired eyes. “I want you here,” he admits, not used to being so weak. “With me.” He doesn't look at Ronan, dropping his hands to grip the countertop, eyes shut tightly and head hung low. “ _Please._ ”

The drumming stops, and Leary briefly wonders if he’s left, but— there’s a pair of hands on his shoulders before he can even truly finish the thought. “Then you have me as long as you need me,” Ronan says, and there’s a short pause before he continues, “I’m not going to push you to talk, but if there’s anything on your mind, I’m listening.”

It's then that Leary completely and utterly breaks. He inhales deeply, intending to respond, but when he tries to speak he instead exhales in a thready wheeze, eyes suddenly stinging with tears threatening to fall. His mind is screaming to _stop,_ but— he just can’t help it. “Christ, you don’t even _know,_ ” he manages to get out, squeezing his eyes shut as tears roll down his burning hot cheeks. “You don’t know about Stefan, you don’t know about Keith, you— you just don’t _know._ ” He chokes out a stuttering sob, burying his face in his hands.

For a long moment, Ronan says nothing— just rubs Leary’s shoulders. “You’re right,” he finally mumbles, “I _don’t_ know, but I’d like to help you through this. Clearly, you’ve been bottling this up.” He breathes in. “Sometimes you just need to talk about things before you break.”

“I’ve been broken for five years,” Leary says, words shattered and near breathless. He shakes his head, leaning into Ronan’s touch. Suddenly, he lets out a short weak laugh. “Do you always ask your one-night stand for his life story?”

“No, my one-night stand normally sends me home before I get the chance,” Ronan says, and it’s clear from his tone he’s trying to lighten the mood. “I just thought you could use somebody, that’s all.”

Leary nods, wiping at his eyes and— damn it, his cheeks are absolutely _slick_ with tears. He drops his hand back to the countertop with a deep sigh. “You’re right,” he says, reaching up to rest one hand over Ronan’s. “I could.” He pauses to take a deep breath, steadying himself before he looks back into those piercing green eyes. “You can go back to bed, maybe sit down. It’s… a lot.”

Ronan hums. “I’m here and ready to listen,” he says, and he finally moves his hands away from Leary’s shoulders. “Forever and always, even. You’re stuck with me now.” His words are joking, but even then, there’s something of a _promise_ underneath them.

Eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, Leary just _stares_ for what feels like forever. He’s heard those promises his entire life, but… somehow, this feels real. Tangible. Much more than Stefan, much more than Keith, much more than any other man he’s given his heart to and been bled dry in the process.

Inhaling deeply, he soon nods.

_Here goes everything._

 

* * *

 

At the dining room table, Marie and Elsa are interrupted mid-conversation by one of the girls clearing her throat.

“I saw papa in the newspaper,” Elizabeth says, and she’s pushing around her vegetables with her fork, one hand on her cheek. She has an inquisitive look on her face— something she inherited from Cole. “What does  _‘queer’_ mean?”

Marie inhales sharply, almost dropping her own fork. She exchanges a glance with Elsa, her friend— _companion_ whom she's been inviting over to dinner for close to a month now. Clearing her throat, she turns back to Elizabeth. “Now, dear,” she starts, pursing her lips. “We don’t say that word. It’s a… very rude term.”

Elizabeth hums. “It’s what the newspaper said,” she remarks. “If it’s rude, why would they use it?”

Wringing her hands in her lap, Marie shoots Elsa another look, silently asking for help. Elsa seems to get the hint, seeing as she continues for her. “Well—” She pauses, tapping her manicured nails on the table. “They don’t exactly _like_ him, Lizzy.”

Juliet pipes up now. “Why not? Dad’s a good person.” She looks more confused than questioning.

“Did he do something bad?” Elizabeth cuts in. Her leftover vegetables are now forgotten in favor of the topic.

“No, he—” Marie cuts herself off before she can say something without fully thinking it through, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing at her temples. “He’s… something that others don’t like, girls,” she says, opening her eyes to glance between them. “Remember when mommy was angry at the lawyer?”

“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth hums. “But what does that have to do with this?”

Juliet blinks a few times, setting down her fork as she leans in to listen. “What don’t people like about dad?”

Marie sets her jaw, something making her blood heat up as she sorts through everything in her mind. Those _photos_ he sent home are coming back to her— the ones of him and two other men, looking happy as can be. She doesn’t realize her hand is shaking until Elsa reaches out and the woman’s fingers brush her knuckles. Taking a deep breath, Marie turns to her daughters with a weary smile on her face. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, girls,” she says, moving to fold her hands neatly in her lap. “Are you two finished with dinner?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, almost a little too quickly. Juliet just nods, keeping silent as Elizabeth continues. “Can I be excused?”

“You _may,_ ” Marie says, subtly correcting her all the while. She smiles a little more genuinely, then, almost _relieved._ “You girls have some time before bed. I’m sure you can find something to do in the meantime, hm?”

Elizabeth is quick to jump to her feet. “Of course, momma,” she says, and she’s tugging at her sister’s hand, “Come on, Julie.” It’s all she has to say before she’s pulling the other girl out of the room.

When they’re gone, Marie lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, burying her head into her hands. She doesn’t see the way Elsa stares at her with those captivating blue eyes, or the way she quirks an eyebrow and sits forward. “You’ll have to tell them someday,” she says, voice lowered.

Marie looks up, brows furrowed. “I don’t— I don’t particularly _want_ to,” she says, hand dropping to rest on the tabletop. She smiles briefly when Elsa’s hand folds over hers, but that _worry_ comes back as if it had never left. “What if they tell someone?”

“Even if they do,” Elsa starts, her other hand coming to clasp Marie’s in both of hers, “the damage has already been _done,_ Marie. They may know only one facet of the truth now, but who’s to say they won’t learn next week? Tomorrow?”

Marie swallows hard, averting her gaze and nodding. There’s a long moment of silence between them— then, Marie’s locked eyes with the other woman. “We _have_ to do something about this.” She pauses to shake her head, exhaling deeply. “But— I don’t know _how,_ Elsa.”

Elsa sits there in silence, in thought, her eyes lowering to the table. Then, finally, she looks back up to hold Marie’s stare, a plan hidden beneath those irresistible rings of oceanic blue. “I think I know someone who can help.”

 

* * *

 

Some days are harder than others for Ralph.

It’s the days when the only thing he can focus on are the softness of his features and the pitch of his voice. It’s the days when he can barely stand to look in the mirror for more than a second and the days when he accidentally slips up in his own head. It’s the days when he calls his mother out of guilt and tries not to flinch whenever she uses words like _daughter_ or refers to him with a name he’d long since buried in the past.

It’s the days like today when his lungs constrict and his eyes sting with tears because it’s all he can think about.

He’s found himself thinking about it even more since Cole’s outing. _There’s nothing to worry about,_ he keeps repeating in his head, but it’s getting harder and harder to believe with each second that passes. Every new article leaves a bad taste in his mouth— something vaguely metallic, and he never realizes it’s because he’s biting his tongue until it’s too late. He has to remind himself that everybody sees him as he wants to be seen, but even then, the fears creep up on him. All it would take is one match to light a fire and leave him in a burning house of his own design.

 _Stop_. The thoughts don’t stop. They never do. With a sharp inhale, Ralph moves to push the heels of his hands into his eyes in an attempt to prevent the tears threatening to fall. He counts to ten— then twenty, and then thirty. Nothing’s working. _Don’t cry_. _You can’t cry_.

Telling himself that doesn’t help and finally, he breaks, tears freely flowing. He tries to remind himself that he’s not even alone, but it doesn’t stop the hiccups and gasping breaths. His panic is only worsened when he feels Harry stir and with another sharp intake of air, he wills himself to _stop_. Obviously, it doesn’t work and he squeezes his stinging eyes shut. _Stop, stop, stop—_

Harry mumbles something incoherently at first, then— “Baby?” The word is slightly muffled by the pillow, voice slurred and eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He probably doesn’t even realize what he just _called_ Ralph, judging by how he keeps drifting in and out every few moments.

Ralph wipes at his face. Any other time he might’ve stopped and appreciated that, but right now, he’s too busy trying to keep it together. “Sorry,” he manages to choke out, “I—” He takes a minute to steady his breathing before continuing. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“No, no, s’fine,” Harry murmurs, shifting to wrap his arms around Ralph and pull him close. His hand rests on the back of the shorter man’s head, threading in his dark hair and petting softly— it seems that he knows the way to calm him down. He shifts to press a gentle kiss to Ralph’s forehead. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Ralph inhales shakily. “I— I don’t know,” he mumbles, and he wipes at his face again, “Things are just weighing down on me, I guess, and—” He shakes his head. “The whole Cole, uh, _situation_ is still worrying me. I know I don’t have any reason to, but...” He trails off and doesn’t finish the thought.

Harry just holds Ralph in silence for a while, soothingly combing his hands through his hair in an attempt to calm him down. Then, he’s pressing yet another kiss to Ralph’s forehead, closer to his temple. “You’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, still half-asleep, “everybody loves you. _I_ love you. Nobody’s gonna let that happen.”

Breathing out a watery laugh, Ralph shifts to lean his head against Harry’s chest. The tears are slowing to a stop now, and his lungs don’t feel as constricted as they were before. All he can focus on is the steady pace of Harry’s heartbeat.  “You’re right,” he says, and he lets his aching eyes slide shut. There’s a beat of silence, as the two of them just lie there. “Do you really mean that, though? That you, uh— love me?”

Nodding, Harry rests his chin on the top of Ralph’s head, fingers still running through his hair. “‘Course I do,” he nearly slurs, eyes fluttering shut. Ralph can feel him relaxing, hear his heartbeat slowing down. “Always have.”

A smile tugs at Ralph’s lips. Okay, it isn’t a complete fix, but it helps— immensely. “Well,” he starts, “I love you, too. A lot.” He laughs softly. It feels good to finally say that out loud. “You should go back to sleep. I’m fine now and I can tell you’re still tired.”

Harry lets out a small hum, absentmindedly pulling Ralph even closer. “See you in the morning,” he says, and it’s clear he’s drifting off. “M’love you.” And just like that, he’s out, fallen back into a deep sleep as he snores softly.

As Ralph just lies there and stares at him, there’s only one thought on his mind: _God, I adore you_.

It’s a nice change.

 

* * *

 

Every day that goes by, it just gets worse.

Every day that goes by, there’s another article to set fire to his name. Every day that goes by, there’s another person that recognizes him on the street and he swears to God that he can see them holding back a punch. Every day that goes by, there’s another spike of anxiety that pieces his heart, driving him closer to the edge. Every day that goes by, there’s another photo of himself on the front page, and every day he just wants to strike a match and see it all go up in flames.

Every day that goes by, Cole loses himself a little more.

As it is, he’s pacing back and forth in the shared apartment between him, Stefan, and Roy, eyebrows furrowed as he mutters to himself. He’s running through every scenario in his mind— meetings with the Chief that all end in his unceremonious expulsion from the force, talks with his family that leave him severed from those he thought would _never_ disappear… he even fears the possibility of Stefan or Roy kicking him to the curb for bringing attention to their relationship.

He inhales sharply, nearly tripping over his own feet. That’s a _horrifying_ thought. Surely, they’ve been through too much together— there was the whole Black Dahlia incident with Stefan and the _drowning_ incident with Roy. That has to be enough to make them care for him, right? No, maybe they’re just humoring him. _Shut up._ Maybe they’re just putting up with him because their hearts are too kind. _Shut up._ Maybe they’re _afraid_ of him, _afraid_ of what he’s done, too _afraid_ to put up a fight. _Shut up._ Maybe they’re using him as a means to an end, utilizing his skills for their own gain. _Shut up._ Maybe— _Shut up._ Maybe— _Shut up._ Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe—

All at once, everything stops.

Life comes to a halt, time seeming to freeze around Cole. _Freeze—_ God, it’s _freezing._ It’s freezing. _It’s freezing._ His ears begin to ring, his breath catching in his throat as he inhales deeply, exhaling in a wheeze. Water crashes into his lungs, and in that moment he swears that he can feel his fingers numbing and his eyes stinging with salt. He’s struggling to breathe, gasping for air and not getting any.

His eyes are on his hands, but he feels like he’s watching himself from miles away. Inky blackness closes in around his vision, and no amount of blinking chases it away. He can hardly feel himself breathing, his desperate pleas for air coming frenzied and helpless. Cole chokes out something unintelligible to even himself, and it’s then that he realizes that he’s on his knees.

Suddenly, a pair of arms close around him, one hand on the back of his head, careful not to disturb the wound. “Hey, I’ve got you.” Roy’s voice sounds so far away. “Relax. You’re fine.”

Cole doesn’t know what he says in response— or if he says anything at all. But that hand on his head shocks him back to reality, tethering him to the sensation of Roy’s firm grip. It’s then that he lets his arms wrap around Roy, coming to the realization that he’s trembling like a goddamn earthquake. He inhales sharply and chokes out a weak cry, burying his face into Roy’s shoulder. He repeats what he said, and although it’s fuzzy, he manages to make it out this time. “ _I’m drowning._ ”

Roy just holds on tighter and turns his head to press a kiss to Cole’s temple, burying his face in his hair for a second. He pulls back to speak. “You’re not drowning, Cole,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here if you were, would I? You’re alive. You’re breathing. I’ve got you.”

Cole inhales deeply— another gasp, leading into a shaky sob as he squeezes his eyes shut. “You’ve got me,” he breathes out, pulling Roy even closer and allowing himself to hiccup and cry into his chest. “You’ve— you’ve got me. You’ve got me. I’m— I’m not drowning. I’m alive.” He sounds like he isn’t even in his own body. “Roy— please— don’t let go.”

“I’m not going to,” Roy says, and he squeezes his own eyes shut, holding on as tight as he can. “Not until you’re ready.”

Cole’s entire body quakes with another sob, his hands curling into fists in the back of Roy’s jacket. He’s repeating _“don’t let go”_ between sharp, shaking breaths, his face buried in the taller man’s chest. “I feel cold,” he manages to get out.

“You’re always cold,” Roy says. It’s a feeble attempt at lightening the mood, but an attempt nonetheless. He shifts to kiss his temple again and pull him closer. At this point, he’s practically cradling him in his arms. “Am I warm enough for you?”

With a feverish nod, Cole clutches Roy’s shirt in his grasp, eyes shut tightly as his breathing stutters. “You’re warm,” he exhales, inhaling in a sharp gasp. “You’re— you’re warm, you’re warm, you’re—”

Somewhere behind him, the door opens and shuts. “What happened?” It’s Stefan, and he sounds increasingly concerned. He’s at their side in a blink, kneeling beside Cole and putting a hand on his back.

Roy shrugs the best he can with Cole clinging to him. “I don’t know,” he says, “One minute, he was fine and the next— he collapsed. I think he’s having a flashback to the, uh… _y’know_.”

Stefan exchanges a glance with him before focusing his attention on Cole. “We’re both here now, Cole,” he says, “You’re going to be okay.”

Fresh tears spill down Cole’s cheeks once he fully registers Stefan’s voice, grasping at him and pulling him in, effectively sheltering himself in between both men. “I’m scared,” he wheezes out, his attempt to catch his breath coming as a hiccup. He just breaks down into more broken sobs, too far away from his own body to even recognize what’s going on.

“ _Shh,_ hey, it’s okay,” Stefan says, voice calm and soothing. He rubs Cole’s back, frown only deepening. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re not drowning. You’re in our apartment with me and Roy.”

Roy nods. “Just focus on our voices, okay?”

Cole swallows hard and finally manages to inhale and exhale a deep breath, his mind buzzing with their voices— so close yet still so _far._ He allows himself to relax in their arms, the steady flow of tears coming to a gradual stop as he steadies his breathing. It takes him a while, but he eventually returns to his own body, fingertips tingling with the sensation of the fabric of Roy’s shirt. He takes another deep, _deep_ breath, just to re-center himself once and for all. “What—” And another hard swallow. “What am I doing down here?”

Stefan takes a deep breath of his own and exhales it with a relieved sigh. He’s still rubbing Cole’s back, as if just to keep contact with him. “You had a flashback,” he says, “I’m guessing, at least. Are you alright now?”

Cole gives a shaky nod, letting his eyes flutter closed as he revels in the warmth of his lovers’ embrace. “I… I think?” He’s not too sure— his tone even rises at the end. Forcing out an uncomfortable laugh, he shakes his head. “I’ve never— never had one that _bad_ before.”

“Well,” Roy starts, and he leans in to press a kiss to the top of Cole’s head, “We’re here for you. Even if things aren’t fine now, they will be.”

There’s another nod, much more stable this time. “I suppose that’s— that’s correct, yes,” he says, and he opens his mouth to continue, but he’s cut off by his own stomach rumbling louder than it ever has before. What follows is a long moment of silence— then, Cole starts _laughing,_ shifting to bury his face in Roy’s chest. “I— I think I’m hungry.” He just laughs more at that.

With a laugh of his own, Stefan moves to break away and stand up. “I’ll go cook,” he says, and he adjusts his clothes, “Roy, you can help.”

Roy looks almost hesitant to let go of Cole, but after a moment, he finally does and pushes up off of the floor. “I guess,” he says, holding a hand out to Cole, “Come on. Up.”

Cole smiles weakly, taking Roy’s hand and allowing him to help him up. He pauses to brush himself off, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Can I watch?” He looks up, then, glancing between the both of them. “I know the answer’s obvious, but…” He trails off, offering another smile.

Stefan laughs and leans over to press his lips to Cole’s cheek. “Of course,” he says, and he gently claps a hand on his back before turning on his heel to head for the kitchen, Roy and Cole in tow.

As Cole follows them to the kitchen, there’s only one thought on his now-clear mind.  
  
Every day that goes by, he loves them _just_ a bit more.


	20. Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elsa and Marie take matters into their own hands. Jack receives a call from a dear friend. Cole relives a horrible memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's our apology chapter, it's over 7k
> 
> -riley

Marie is an enigma.

It’s been roughly a month since they first met, and Elsa still can’t figure the girl out. Every time she thinks they’re becoming closer, Marie pushes her away and isolates herself again and again, rinse and repeat. Her cycle is a cycle of self-destruction, endless and consuming like the Uroboros— and _God,_ she has _children_ to care for on top of all that. Elsa’s already lost count of how many times that she’s been called for assistance when it got to be too much, and despite how she wants to decline and encourage the woman to get some actual _help,_ her bleeding heart bends her will every time.

Today is no different, it seems. She’s behind the wheel while Marie sits silently in the passenger’s seat, her fingers tracing softly-trickling raindrops as they roll down the window. Elsa spares her a glance when they come to a stop at a red light, curious and searching. She clears her throat to get Marie’s attention. “Do you want to listen to the radio?”

Marie barely moves, only shifting her gaze to look at Elsa out of the corner of her eye. “Sure,” she says, giving a gentle shrug of her shoulders and returning her attention to the rain.

Elsa merely hums in response, reaching out to turn on the radio, hand lingering on the channel knob. “Any specific station?” She finds herself staring at Marie again, eyeing her up and down— it’s less appreciative and more concerned.

“Uh.” Marie goes somehow _quieter,_ seemingly unbothered by the near-deafening silence between them. Low radio static hangs in the air while she thinks, finally speaking a moment later. “I listen to the news, honestly. It reminds me that I’m here.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “As odd as that sounds.”

“It’s not odd,” Elsa replies without thinking, almost wincing at how three simple words can come out so _lovingly._ She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when Marie looks to _enjoy_ it, a reserved smile tugging at the younger woman’s lips. With a small smile of her own, Elsa adjusts the frequency to the news station.

The radio tunes in mid-conversation, just as the light turns green. “...that’s what all this rainfall has to mean,” an older man says. “There’s always the calm before the storm, right?”

“This is a pretty funny idea of _calm,_ Ned,” a woman snarks. “It’s been raining these last few months more than it has in five years, feels like.”

Another man cuts Ned off before he can retort. “He’s got a point, Daria,” he says, albeit tentatively. “There wasn’t anything to lead up to this much rainfall; this might very well _be_ what Ned’s going on about.”

Daria breathes out a short, almost irritated sigh. “I just don’t see what could be next, Tom,” she admits. “I mean, really— what comes after this? Snow? Fire?”

“Fire,” Ned echoes, tutting and presumably shaking his head. “No snow out here, you know that. And, Hell, fire is the opposite of water—”

Tom stifles a laugh. “Are you still going on about that?”

“Yes, I am!” Ned exclaims, mock-offended. “You two hyenas can call me a kook for thinking this, but I honestly believe that we’re going to see a spate of fires within the next few months. And I’ll tell you why…”

Swallowing hard, Elsa moves to turn down the radio. All of a sudden, she’s sweating, but she knows it isn’t due to the news. She should’ve known this was coming; she’s been yawning and tearing up all day, foolishly trying to ignore it and continue on like nothing’s wrong. She just wants to be sober for _one day—_ is that too much to ask?

“Why’d you turn it down?” Marie asks softly, eyebrows raised as she stares at the woman trying desperately to focus on the road. She seems to notice the clamminess of Elsa’s hands, the moisture on her brow. “Elsa, are you alright?”

Elsa inhales sharply— exhales in an unusually shaky laugh. “Yes, dear,” she says, making a sudden left turn onto the correct road. “Everything’s— fine. Everything’s fine.” She glances over and offers Marie a gentle smile, returning her attention to the road as the woman beside her continues to just _stare._

Marie purses her lips, and Elsa doesn’t have to look at her face to know that she doesn’t believe her in the slightest. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

When Elsa said she had an idea, Marie didn’t know  _what_ to expect.

As it is, they’re sitting together in a stuffy waiting area— one that branches off of several different offices, but most importantly a noisy and bustling newsroom, with flocks of journalists rushing room to room in a frenzy. Marie _hates_ crowds to begin with, but a hysteric crowd is another story entirely. Her ears are ringing with the nasally voices of up-tight sensationalists, and worst of all, they’re talking about _Cole._

“Y’know, I’m not surprised,” one says casually, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “I mean, just _look_ at him.”

Another man scoffs. “It's always those damn _queers,_ hidin’ in plain sight.” He shakes his head, nose wrinkled in disgust. “One of these days, we'll get 'em all.”

Marie’s discomfort only grows, her heart dropping into her hollow stomach. God above, how could this _happen?_ Cole is the very soul of caution; it isn’t like him to let such a heavy secret slip. He never even told _her,_ and they were _married!_ Someone _must_ have ratted him out, either intentionally or unintentionally. Admittedly, she isn’t sure how this career-ruining exposure could be on accident, but… the hopeful girl inside of her just won’t let go.

She’s brought out of her internal monologue by Elsa placing a hand on her shoulder, soothing and affectionate. “Marie,” she says, voice low. When she has Marie’s attention, she tosses her head in the direction of an open office door. “We’ve been called.”

“Oh, right, I—” Marie exhales sharply, brushing some strands of loose hair out of her face. “I wasn’t listening.” She clears her throat and moves to stand with Elsa, meeting the other woman’s gaze with a tired smile.

When they’re on their feet, they head into the office of a P. H. Lawrence, which hosts a hefty amount of clutter; a plethora of ambiguous journalistic awards decorate the wall along with several abstract and surrealist paintings, none of which are particularly recognizable to Marie. Filing cabinets are pushed against the wall, tall and many-drawered, a few visibly bursting with files. The furniture is all rather modern; a seating area is situated by the door, two high-quality armchairs sitting half-turned towards an accent table upon which a conversation piece rests— a somewhat suggestive sculpture, the silhouettes of two androgynous figures intertwined together. The desk is in front of a window that overlooks the city, hosting an expensive typewriter, desk lamp, ashtray, and not much more. In front of the desk is two chairs identical to the seating area’s, and behind it there is yet another of the same. In front of the window and behind the desk, a sharp-suited figure, supposedly Lawrence, stands there with a cigarette in their hand, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Completely opposite to her expectations, Marie hears a distinctly feminine voice from Lawrence. “So you’re here to get somebody out of some deep shit, huh?”

Elsa doesn’t seem all that surprised; though Marie supposes they _do_ know each other. “You haven’t heard?” Elsa returns, sighing deeply and lowering her head. “It’s terrible, Penny. You’re the only person who can help.”

Lawrence snorts, turning around completely. The sun illuminates her black skin and the flecks of gold in her dark brown eyes, which only seem to brighten as she looks Marie up and down. A sly smile crosses her face as she leans her hand on her desk, her other hand holding her cigarette between two fingers. “And who’s this pretty lady?” She takes a long drag, her appreciative gaze never faltering.

Marie exchanges a glance with Elsa, her cheeks steadily turning pink as she wrings her hands nervously. _Oh._ She’s been caught off-guard by such overt flirting; especially from such a strikingly _handsome_ woman such as Lawrence. “Marie Boutin,” she says, holding out one hand for a shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lawrence.”

Lawrence takes her hand, but she doesn’t give a handshake— no, instead she brings Marie’s hand up to her lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Marie goes _completely_ red, her free hand resting over her mouth as she just stares. That prompts a laugh from the suave stranger; she turns to Elsa with a grin. “She’s an easy one, ain’t she?”

Elsa gives a slight roll of her eyes, and in a flash, she links arms with Marie. This close contact does _nothing_ to alleviate the flush of her cheeks— in fact, she blushes even _harder._ “No, Penny,” Elsa says, “you just fluster every woman you meet.”

“Why, thank you,” Lawrence says, bowing deeply and straightening up a moment later. Her expression turns from carefree to serious, just like that. “Alright, let’s talk business,” she says, moving to sit on the edge of her desk and take a puff from her cigarette. “I’m assuming this is about that gay cop?”

Marie inhales deeply, closing her eyes and reaching up to rub at the space between. God, she already has a migraine— not that it ever _stops._ “Yes,” she says, dropping her arms with a sigh. She links her hands together in front of herself, fidgeting a bit nervously. “My ex-husband.”

Lawrence raises her brows. “Your ex-husband,” she repeats. There’s a long pause before she lets out a wheezy laugh, shaking her head incredulously. “Well, I’ll be,” she says, “you were each other’s beards?”

Elsa clears her throat. “Penny,” she says, a little stern. “Not the time. This is no laughing matter.”

Marie watches as Lawrence opens her mouth to speak— shuts it, eyebrows furrowing. “Right,” the suited woman says, rubbing at her jaw in thought. Once she seems to get the idea, she continues. “You want me to do something about this, huh?”

Wringing her hands, Marie nods. “Yes, I— I need you to—” Her voice dies in her throat as she realizes that she doesn’t have a plan, frowning deeply and staring down at the floor. What could rectify this situation, really? There’s not much Lawrence can do; if she were to publish a plainly pro-homosexual article, this place would go up in flames. “We must take an indirect approach,” Marie says slowly, looking up to meet Lawrence’s steady gaze. “Perhaps we could imply that the original article was— was—” Her voice strains as she racks her brain, filing through excuses after excuses, reasoning upon reasoning…

And all of a sudden it comes to her.

“A lie,” she says, the room standing still as her mind clears. “We could say that the original article was a lie to ruin his career— you know, by his enemies.” Marie clears her throat, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s, uh… very good at upsetting people.”

Elsa just stares in surprise and adoration, but she doesn’t say anything. Lawrence, on the other hand, claps her hands together and points at Marie. “That’s thinkin’ like a journalist,” she says, sliding off of her desk and putting out her cigarette in the ashtray atop of it. She comes up to the two women, still arm-in-arm, and grabs their outer shoulders. “So, here’s the plan; I walk into that room full of reporters and I tell ‘em we’ve got a hot tip.” She gestures widely. “ _‘The Phelps scandal was staged.’_ Sounds good?”

Marie can’t help the smile that spreads across her face, nodding much more enthusiastically than before. “Absolutely,” she says, reaching out for a handshake. This time, she gets one, firm and businesslike. She’s still smiling when their hands part— this is the happiest she’s been in _years,_ it feels like. “Thank you, Ms. Lawrence. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

Lawrence gives her a theatrical bow. “Anything for you, Ms. Boutin.” She looks up, sleazy grin on her face yet again. “Call me Penny, too.” She straightens back up and before either of them can react, she points at Elsa. “You, stay behind for a moment. You’re pale.”

Elsa exhales a sigh of relief, muttering a quiet _“finally”_ and unlinking her arm from Marie’s. She turns to the shorter woman with a weary smile; _she_ does _look pale,_ Marie notes. “You can go on ahead to the car,” Elsa says. “I’ll be down in a few.”

One eyebrow raised, Marie nods. “If you must,” she says, a little skeptical. She wants to ask what's wrong, but she decides to keep her worries quiet, only offering Elsa a concerned glance before turning on her heel and taking her leave.

This is going to change _everything._

 

* * *

 

Jack wakes up to the sound of the phone ringing.

He can’t help but groan. There’s a distinct pain in his skull that he can only attribute to the breakdown he’d had before falling asleep and that _incessant_ high-pitched shrieking isn’t helping in the least. Shifting to get free of Courtney’s surprisingly tight hold, he moves to sit up and grab the phone. “Jack Kelso speaking.”

The voice he hears on the other end is a voice he hasn’t heard in a long time— not for years, at the very least. “Oh— I didn’t think you’d pick up,” Janice Merrill, Hank’s little sister, says a little sheepishly. She sounds _much_ more mature than she used to, no doubt due to the fact that she had to deal with her brother dying so young, but there’s still that small sliver of childlike innocence she always used to have. “Hi, Jack. It’s… it’s been a while.”

Jack’s not quite sure what to say. He glances down at Courtney— still asleep, despite the phone and Jack’s absence from his arms. He reaches up to tear his fingers through his hair. “Yes, it has, Jan,” he says, and a little bit of fondness slips in, “How have you been?”

“I’ve been—” She pauses to breathe out a weary laugh. “Not very well, honestly, but I’ve been getting by.” Janice clears her throat, and there’s the sound of fabric shifting— she’s presumably moved the phone to her shoulder. “Um— I thought maybe you’d like to know that I’m in L.A. My plane just landed.”

“Oh,” Jack says. He drops his hand from his hair and a few strands fall in his face. He blows them out of the way with a frown. “By yourself?”

Janice goes quiet. She would _never_ stay silent for this long, nor so solemn. “Yes, by myself,” she says finally, voice surprisingly delicate. She swallows hard, and Jack can almost hear how hard it is for her to hold herself together. “Father’s… he’s buried next to Hank.”

Once again, Jack is left without anything to say. He runs a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw. That deep frown has yet to leave; he’s pretty sure it won’t. “My condolences,” he says, “I didn’t know. I… haven’t had time to talk to anybody lately.” He takes a minute before continuing. “What about Aunt Gene?”

More eerie silence. Janice breathes out another laugh, significantly weaker. “She left,” she says, discomfort in her voice as she continues. “Back when Hank first— first went to…” She cuts herself off with a cough, leaving it there. There’s a long pause before she speaks again. “Did he never tell you?”

Jack’s frown only deepens— if that’s even _possible._ “No, he didn’t,” he says, and he squeezes his eyes shut. His headache is getting worse by the minute. _Relax._ “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I’d known. It must be a sore subject.”

Janice hums. “I’m getting better about it,” she lies through her teeth. She doesn’t give him any time to think about it before she moves on. “Hey, though, um— I was calling because I was wondering if you had an open couch. Or if you know someone who does. Just— anything, really.” Another laugh, and Jack doesn’t have to see her to know she’s shaking her head. “This was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision. I— I came here because this is where _you_ are.” A pause, and he can almost imagine the sad smile she gives before she continues. “You Kelsos are the last of my family.”

“I’ve got an open couch, yes,” Jack says, and he glances down at Courtney again. Inhaling sharply, he pinches the bridge of his nose. He exhales with a laugh before continuing. “Uh— you’re definitely welcome to stay with me for as long as you need, but… you should know I don’t exactly live alone.”

“Oh,” Janice says. “With that man you met in the Marines? Cole, right?”

All that does is send a sharp pang through his chest. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ “Uh, no,” Jack says, “Somebody— somebody else I met back during the war. Cole is—” He stops himself and racks his brain for how to continue. “He’s involved with somebody else now, too.” He takes pause and pinches the bridge of his nose harder. “I should say _two_ somebody elses.”

Janice inhales sharply. “ _Ah._ ” There’s the sound of shifting on the other end, a little uncomfortable. “Um— I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She goes quiet for what feels like forever. When her curiosity gets the best of her, she breaks the silence in genuine interest. “Who are you with now?”

Jack finally drops his hand from his face and shifts his gaze back to Courtney. Absentmindedly, he moves to run his fingers through the other man’s hair, hand lingering on his cheek. “His name is Courtney,” he says, and he can’t keep the absolute _adoration_ out of his voice, “He was our, uh— medic. I was always keeping him out of trouble and…” He breathes out a laugh. “I’m doing that now, too, I guess. It’s how we met again.”

The way that Courtney smiles in his sleep at Jack’s touch leaves him breathless, distracting him with such intense love that he almost misses what Janice says. “ _Aw,_ that’s adorable—” She stops. The cogs are turning in her mind, now. “Wait, your _medic?_ Jack, how many people did you—”

For some reason, Janice’s words leave a sudden heat in Jack’s cheeks. “I don’t think I should answer that,” he says, and he finally moves his hand away from Courtney’s face so he can run it back through his own hair. “Trust me. That’d be the best for both of us.”

Janice gives an audible shudder. “Can’t argue with that,” she says, relieving a bit of the tension by letting out a small laugh. “Well, I’m glad you two have found each other. Really.” She stops, exhaling deeply through her nose. “…You deserve to be happy, Jack.”

Even though he knows she can’t see him, a smile tugs at his lips. “Thanks, Jan,” he says. He pauses for what feels like a very long moment. “You know, you deserve to be happy, too. I’m sure that you’ll find something in L.A.— or someone, for that matter.”

Now it’s Janice’s turn to get flustered. “I— well—” She laughs again, and it’s thankfully more genuine than before. “I suppose that’s right, yes,” she says, opting to barrel on with the conversation. “Um— can you give me your address?”

Jack hums. “Of course,” he says, and he rattles off his address. “Did you get that?”

“Crystal clear,” Janice says, and there’s that shifting noise again. Then— “Alright, shouldn’t be too far from here. I’ll see you in…” She pauses, thinking it over. “…twenty minutes?”

“Right,” Jack says, and he glances towards the clock on the wall. Close to eight, now. “I’ll be waiting, then. See you when you get here.” A pause, as he tries to decide if he should just leave it at that. “Uh— travel safely.” It’s all he has to say before he hangs up.

Once he sets the phone down and it clicks, he breathes out a deep sigh. Well, that’s a… thing. He isn’t sure how to feel about it. He’s… _happy_ to see Janice again, but…

He shakes his head and moves to stand; he needs to get changed before she gets here. However, he doesn’t get very far before the phone starts ringing again. With a frustrated noise, he moves to pick it back up. “Jack Kelso speaking,” he says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound _too_ annoyed.

“ _Jack._ ” It’s Curtis Benson on the other end, his boss— he doesn’t bother masking his own irritation. “I don’t think I have to tell you _how_ much work you’ve missed in the last month.”

Jack straightens up a bit and rubs at his face. “Mr. Benson,” he says, quick to use a much more civil tone of voice, “Right. I’m, uh— my apologies, sir. I’ve been… _dealing…_ with some things.”

Benson is about to continue when Courtney lets out a soft groan behind Jack, curling up a little and mumbling a quiet _“Jackie?”_ with his eyes still shut. It’s quiet, but— it doesn’t seem to escape the man on the other line.

“Dealing with some things,” Benson repeats, his words oozing with sarcasm. “For once, I feel content not asking.” He doesn’t give Jack time to respond before he continues on. “You should know that you’re reaching the end of your little _vacation._ ” Jack knows him well enough to know that the word _‘vacation’_ is surrounded by air-quotes.

Jack inhales deeply, unable to stop his free hand from curling into a fist. He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten in his head. “Of course, sir,” he says, “I’ll come in tomorrow. You can be sure of it.”

“I’ll be holding you to that, Kelso,” Benson says. “Have an… _interesting_ day.” With that, he hangs up.

There’s a few beats of silence, broken only when Courtney lets out a quiet yawn. “Who was that?” He’s staring up at Jack with those tired blue-gray eyes of his, cheek resting against the pillow.

Jack stares at the receiver for a moment before setting it down. “Benson,” he says, and he continues on his way to the closet like he had been before he was interrupted. “He’s not too keen that I’ve missed so much work.” A pause, as he moves to pull out a clean shirt and change into it. “We’re, uh— we’re going to have a guest, by the way.”

Courtney gives a soft hum in understanding, moving to sit up and rub at his face. “A guest?” He asks— then, he winces. “Jeez, my head…” He murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his hand on his forehead.

“Give me a minute and I’ll get you some aspirin,” Jack says. He takes a minute to change his pants, too, before continuing. “Yes, though, a guest. It’s, uh—” He pauses with a wince of his own. “It’s Hank’s sister, Janice.”

At that, Courtney stiffens up, eyes wide. “ _Oh._ ” He’s rubbing at the back of his neck now, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “Uh— I didn’t know he had a sister.”

Jack turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed. Absentmindedly, he tries to brush his hair back— it just falls in his face once more. “He does,” he says, and he winces again, “He _did,_ at least. We, um… our families spent a lot of time together.” He shifts his gaze to the clock. Janice would be here soon. “You can go back to sleep and meet her later if you want, but she’s already on her way.”

Courtney looks to be thinking it over. He returns his attention to Jack with a gentle smile, nodding. “I want to meet her,” he says, moving to the edge of the bed so he can stand. Once he’s up, he immediately leans in to press a lazy yet loving kiss to Jack’s lips. Jack is quick to reciprocate, one hand going to the small of Courtney’s back. Courtney can be felt smiling into the sweet kiss, pulling away for just a moment. “I love you _so_ much,” he breathes out, lips barely even an inch from Jack’s.

“I love you more,” Jack mumbles, and he closes the gap between them briefly. When he pulls back, he reaches up to cup Courtney’s face with his free hand. “I hope you can remember how to be quiet while Jan’s staying here, though.”

Courtney snorts, giving Jack a devious grin as he leans up to whisper into the taller man’s ear. “I’ll just have to suck your—”

He’s cut off by the phone ringing. Jack pulls away from Courtney with a frustrated noise and grabs the receiver almost a little too aggressively. “Jack Kelso _speaking,_ ” he bites out, “Who’s calling?”

“ _Wow,_ Jack,” comes the voice of his younger sister, Kitty, on the other end. “Momma would have your head if she knew you’d just answered the phone like that.”

Jack inhales sharply. _Who’s next? Theresa? My mother?_ He shakes his head. “Sorry, Kitty,” he says, and he rubs at his forehead. That headache is back, but at least it’s for different reasons now. “I didn’t know it was you. My phone’s been going off all morning.”

Kitty snorts. “Well, aren’t you just Mr. Popularity,” she snarks, and Jack doesn’t need to see her to know she’s got an irritating smirk on her face. “Always were. I kind of resented you for it.” She barks out a laugh. “Anyway, I bet you’re wonderin’ why I’m callin’.”

“Yes, that would’ve been my next question,” Jack says, and he glances at Courtney for a minute, eyebrows furrowed as he mouths the words _‘my sister.’_ Courtney responds by raising his own brows, blinking a few times before Jack continues. “You haven’t called me in _months._ Why now?” 

There’s a hum on the other end. “Come on, Jack,” Kitty says, and he can picture her twisting her hair around her finger as she talks, “Can’t a girl just call her _favorite_ brother for no reason whatsoever?”

“I’m your only brother,” Jack deadpans.

“Details,” Kitty says, and she drags the _‘a’_ out a little. She takes a moment before continuing, fabric shifting in the background. “Alright, alright, I’ll get to the point. I thought you might be _delighted_ to know that I’ll be comin’ to visit.”

Jack reaches up to rub at his forehead again. “Oh,” he says, “That’s— that’s good. Great.” He inhales deeply and exhales. “I already gave up my couch, though, if you’re looking for a place to stay.”

That gets a small scoff out of Kitty. “I’m _wounded,_ ” she says, but it’s clear she’s being sarcastic. “Giving up your couch to somebody other than your own sister? Harsh. Just harsh.” She laughs again. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout it. I’ve already made plans to stay with a friend of mine.”

“Right,” Jack says, “Uh— when will you be here?”

“If everything goes smoothly, tomorrow,” Kitty says. She goes quiet, for a moment, but it doesn’t last nearly long enough. “Who else is visitin’, Jack?”

Jack briefly wonders if he should even tell her. Against his better judgement, he does. “Jan,” he says, “I’m sure she’d be happy to see you again, Kitty. You two always were so close.”

Kitty is quiet again— worryingly quiet. “We were,” she says, and there’s something unreadable in her tone. Jack doesn’t have time to dwell on it, as she’s bouncing right back. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer! We’ll be seein’ each other very soon, anyway, and we can catch up then.” A pause. “I’ll call you for your address after I get settled in.” She doesn’t even grace him with a goodbye before hanging up.

Jack sets the phone down and turns to Courtney. “Well,” he starts, “Kitty’s coming to visit, too.” He runs his hand down his face, resting it on his jaw. “I would’ve rather dealt with Theresa.”

Courtney tilts his head to the side. “Kitty, too?” He asks, giving a thoughtful hum. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve met her, actually.”

Jack opens his mouth to speak— promptly shuts it at the sound of somebody knocking on the door. “Prepare yourself,” is all he has to say before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

October 13th.

It was a Friday. The unluckiest day of them all; the day relentless gunfire rained upon Sugar Loaf Hill and left Cole alone in that foxhole, covered in red and trembling as he clutched his lover’s bloodied arm to his chest. _October 13th, 1944_ is a date that will never leave Cole’s mind, etched in his memory just as it was etched in a headstone.

No matter how long it’s been, no matter how well he recovers, he’ll _always_ remember. He’ll always remember the sickening warmth and the numbing cold, the percussion ringing in his ears as he stared up at the faded stars, blocked by pillars of smoke swirling in the sky like a tornado. He’ll always remember the aftermath, Jack’s arms around him as he sobbed and wailed and wept in that empty shower unit, the older and _wiser_ man telling him that it’d all be alright.

God, he’ll always remember that night. He’ll _always_ remember the way Jack held him, warm and… _safe._

In his sleep, it comes back to him.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-two hours, five minutes, and forty-eight seconds.

That's how long it's been since Hank died. _Forty-nine._ Cole’s been keeping track, counting every single moment as it passes, every single second a shot to the heart that reminds him he's still here. _Fifty._ He doesn't want to be here. _Fifty-one._

Frankly, he'd rather be dead.

 _Fifty-two._ His eyes are fixed on the tile flooring of the large shower unit, all empty save for him. _Fifty-three._ His skin is red— not just because of the hot water, no, but because of something far worse. _Fifty-four._ He's been scrubbing his arms as hard as possible, his flesh raw from the rough cloth he's using. _Fifty-five._

The rest of his body isn't faring much better, his chest, neck, and face especially red and sore. _Fifty-six._ His eyes are glassy and despondent, staring at nothing and everything all the same. He wishes he was staring at Hank. He wishes that he and Hank could've gone home to California and lived there like they had promised each other in the beginning. He wishes that watch went away with him. All it does is remind Cole of Hank, and he hates it. He _despises_ it.

 _Fifty— fifty— God damn it._ He's lost count. Maybe that's for the best, though— he snaps out of his haze, his vision suddenly focusing and the ringing in his ears subsiding. It's then that he hears another nozzle turn on— there's someone else here.

“How you holding up?” It’s Jack. Of _course_ it’s Jack. Seems only right.

Cole just scrubs even harder, and he can swear he's about to draw blood. “I'm— fine—” He physically winces, shuddering. “I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I'm— I'm fine.” He's repeating himself almost feverishly, and— his arm scrapes up just near the shoulder, beginning to bleed.

“Cole,” Jack says, and his voice is steady. Firm. “It doesn’t _sound_ like everything’s fine.”

Cole stares at the now-bloody cloth, holding it under the water and letting it wash out. “Nothing's fine,” he mumbles, “Nothing's ever fine.” There's a long moment of silence— then, he's turning to face Jack, his eyes wide and strangely fearful. “He's gone, Jack. And you hate me.” He turns back around, running his hands through his hair. “God, everything's falling apart. _I'm_ falling apart. Everything— everything _hurts_.”

Jack just watches him with concern. “Hey,” he says, and he softens his tone a little bit, “Look at me. I don’t hate you.” He breathes out a sigh. “There’s nothing I can do about Hank, but— that much I can at least tell you.”

“Please—” Cole exhales shakily. “Please don't say his name.” For the first time since Jack’s ever known him, he sounds completely broken, utterly shattered. Slowly, though, he turns around to face Jack completely. Jesus Christ, he feels like he's watching himself from outside of his own body— and the haziness of his eyes gives it all away. “I lied to you. I— I _lied_ to you about everything. Why don't you hate me?”

Jack opens his mouth to speak— shuts it. “I don’t know,” he says, and he averts his gaze as he continues, almost as if it hurts to look Cole in the eyes. “I guess somewhere along the way I found myself getting attached to you and I shouldn’t have let it get that far. We weren’t meant to last. None of this was.”  

Cole's mouth is suddenly dry, despite the steam rising from the hot water of the shower. He swallows hard, taking a step back until he hits the wall. “ _I'm_ not going to last,” he says, his voice dangerously low as he stares down at his hands. Scrubbed raw. “I can't see myself going on. I can't even see myself waking up tomorrow.”

Cautiously, Jack takes a step forward— places his hands on Cole’s shoulders. The frown on his face deepens when he brushes where he’d scrubbed his skin to the point of bleeding. “Listen,” he says, “He’d want you to go on, okay? If you can’t do it for yourself, at least do it for him. Go home, play husband, find happiness.”

Cole's shaking his head, staring right through Jack. “I can't. I _can't._ There _is_ no happiness. Everything—” He inhales sharply. “Everything's gone. Hank's dead. I can't face my wife again. And you—” His eyes begin to sting as he finally _really_ looks at Jack. “You're better than me. You _deserve_ better than me. I'm— I'm not even sure if I'm going to be alive tomorrow.” He's shaking his head again, and even in the shower, it's obvious that tears are rolling down his cheeks.

For a long, terribly tense moment, Jack says nothing. All he does is— stare. Then, finally, he says, “I’m still here, Cole. You really think I want to go on without you after all is said and done?” He pauses— almost as if he’s lost his words. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I love you, damn it. I love you and I don’t _want_ anybody else. Only you.”

Cole's eyes snap to Jack’s face, his words trapped in his chest as he inhales deeply— exhales in a broken sob, suddenly pulling Jack close and burying his face into his shoulder. He can't even speak, his fingers digging into Jack's back with how hard he's gripping him. Soon enough, though, he finds his words. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Jack does nothing but hold him for a minute. “Completely lose it?” He suggests.

Cole exhales sharply. “I already have,” he mutters, then— he's pulling away, his hands on Jack's cheeks. He swallows hard, smoothing a bit of his wet hair back into place. “Can— can we kiss?”

Jack’s eyes dart around for a moment— probably out of fear that somebody could walk in on them at any moment. Then, carefully, he says, “Of course.”

Without another word, Cole leans in and the world goes black.

He wakes up a moment later, staring straight up at the ceiling as sunlight spills in through the blinds. Stefan and Roy aren't in bed— probably making breakfast, Cole reasons, but he feels… alone, nonetheless. He shakes his head, running his hands down his face. With Roy, he’s never alone. With Stefan, he feels complete, _whole_ for once.

What he fails to realize is that he’s felt this before— and what happened to _that?_ With a deep and exhausted sigh, Cole moves to roll out of bed, stretching once he stands. He has at least _something_ to be excited for today; he’s getting his bandages taken off once and for all.

It’s been a few long weeks of recovery, only made bearable by Stefan and Roy aiding him at every step; helping him change the gauze when the time came, being patient with him when the impact subtly affected his speech, even holding him when the pain got to be too much. The whole process took a lot out of everyone, but— it’s all worth it in the end, Cole supposes.

Before he knows it, he’s dressed in some casual day clothes, leaning out of the doorway to try and get a good look at the kitchen across the main room. Sure enough, Stefan and Roy are doing just as Cole suspected, preparing a nice breakfast for all three of them. He chuckles softly, crossing the room to lean his shoulder against the kitchen’s doorway now, arms folded in front of his chest. “Morning,” he says, his voice soft and low with sleep still lingering over him.

Stefan is first to turn to greet him, waving around a spatula. “Morning!” He says, quite chipperly. He turns his attention back to the stove. “Did you sleep well?”

Cole hums. “It got a little rough near the end, but— yes, I did.” He smiles, and that smile grows into a mischievous grin when Roy keeps his back turned. “Is Roy still moping because I accidentally kicked him out of bed?”

“I’d say so,” Stefan says, and he takes pause to flip a pancake. He brings his gaze back up to lean in and give Roy a grin of his own. “I already kissed it better, didn’t I, Roy? You can stop pouting.”

Roy scoffs and leans _away—_ only for a minute, though, as apparently he likes being close to either of them at any given time. “I’m not pouting,” he says. He looks at Cole over his shoulder. “See? No pout.”  

Cole brings his hand up to his chin, humming more thoughtfully as he scans Roy’s face. His eyes go a bit further, though— he’s dragging his appreciative gaze up and down the taller man’s body. “I don’t know,” he says, head canting to the side as he glances back up. “You’re always pouting.”

“I absolutely am _not,_ ” Roy says, and he makes a vague gesture. “Face is up here, by the way. Just in case you forgot.” His tone is sarcastic, but not harsh.

Grin only growing, Cole moves to stand behind Roy, having to rise onto the tips of his toes to press a kiss to the back of the _much_ taller man’s neck. “You’re lucky you’re so tall,” he mumbles, giving a quiet chuckle and shaking his head.

Roy rolls his eyes fondly and moves to put an arm around Cole’s waist, pulling him closer. “C’mon, you like that I’m tall,” he says, and as if for emphasis, he kicks one leg out. “Especially when I end up on the bottom and I wrap my legs around you.” A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Not that it happens often.”

Stefan gestures with the spatula again. “Hey, none of that in my kitchen,” he says.   

Cole snorts, trying to ignore the way his cheeks are absolutely _burning_ at Roy’s words. He turns to Stefan with one eyebrow raised. “You’re implying _we_ haven’t used this kitchen for something other than cooking, Stef.”

Stefan opens his mouth to speak— shuts it and just jabs the air with the spatula. His own cheeks are steadily turning red. “Hush,” he says, finally, and he turns his attention back to the frying pan, “I mean, _you’re_ usually the reason _why_ when we’re running late in the morning.”

“I’m honored,” Cole says dryly, and in one swift movement he pulls Roy down and into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss. Roy seems more than a little surprised, but once he’s over it, he wastes no time in reciprocating. Cole hums contentedly into Roy’s mouth, parting his lips to allow the other man some easier access. Roy takes the initiative to deepen the kiss and in an almost-too-skilled way, he moves to lift Cole onto the counter. Cole’s legs hook around Roy’s hips and his hands go for the taller man’s buttons, but before he can get anywhere, Stefan’s clearing his throat.

“Priorities, you two,” Stefan says, eyebrows raised as he turns the stove off. “Just to list a couple examples: breakfast and—” He pauses to gesture towards Cole’s bandaged head. “That.”

Cole breaks away from Roy, breathing heavily as he quirks a brow at Stefan. “I— I suppose,” he says, still out of breath. It only gets worse when Roy starts to kiss his neck— judging by the way Cole’s cheeks flush a deep red, he’s _majorly_ holding himself back. He opens his mouth to continue, but all that comes out is a soft whine as he glances at Roy. “ _Roy,_ good God.”

Roy hums and pulls back a bit so he can shoot Stefan a crooked grin. “Come on, if you’re feeling left out, just say something,” he teases, breathing out a laugh.

All that gets him is an eye roll from Stefan. “Can this not wait?” He asks, “I mean, any other time, I’d say _yes_ but— we’re on a schedule.” A pause, as he snorts. “If the fact that _I’m_ being the responsible one doesn’t raise alarms, I don’t know what will.”  

Sighing deeply, Cole begins to hesitantly push Roy away, hands resting on his chest. “You’re right,” he says to Stefan, moving to slide off of the countertop and dust himself off. He stays as close to Roy as he can, going so far as to lean his cheek against the taller man’s shoulder. “When are we going to remove my bandages?” He gestures vaguely towards his head.

Stefan shoots him a quick glance. “Right after breakfast,” he says, waving the spatula around again, “One more thing off our list.” He winces slightly, but quickly bounces back. “It’s something to celebrate, at least. We could all use something _good._ ”

Cole nods quietly, eyebrows furrowing as he looks towards the window. That article still hasn’t left his mind— he doesn’t expect it to, not for a while. He exhales another sigh, weary. “Especially me,” he says with a dry tone, letting out a hollow and tired laugh.

Roy puts an arm around Cole, rubbing his shoulder. “We’re gonna figure it out,” he says, “Just focus on your head for today.” He presses a gentle kiss to Cole’s temple.

“It’s about all you can do,” Stefan chimes in, turning the stove off.

Cole gives a slight hum, reaching for Stefan’s hand and grasping it tightly. A smile crosses his face; such intimate contact improves his mood greatly. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, glancing up at Roy. “Both of you.”

Roy scoffs slightly. “I’m always right,” he says, “Don’t you know that by now?”

All that gets him is a gentle push to the shoulder from Stefan. “Quiet, you,” he says, and he continues with a joking tone, “You’re not going to make Cole’s head any better by being obnoxious.” He keeps going despite Roy’s mock-offended expression. “We should eat before everything gets cold, yeah?”

Cole opens his mouth to speak— but he’s interrupted by his stomach rumbling. He exhales amusedly through his nose. “I was _about_ to say that I’m famished.”

“What are we waiting for?” Roy asks, pushing away from the cabinet, “Faster we eat, faster we can get those bandages off.”

With a laugh, Cole moves to pull both men towards the dining room. “Then, come _on._ ”


	21. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

_Innocent._

One word.

A simple headline, dated to October 20th, in huge black letters on the front page. A simple headline, just enough to pique a passerby’s interest. A simple headline, the scandal of a lifetime hiding behind it. A simple headline, the talk of the city, and a sobering wake-up call all in one.

A simple headline, one that sparked a _rage_ in Leland Monroe.

He had shown up to Harlan’s office unannounced; it’s early in the morning, far too early to be conducting any business, but that’s never stopped Leland before. There’s a terrible idea brewing in his mind— that fucking _cocksucker_ is either out of the Fund, or he’ll bend to Leland’s will as he’s done for years, whether he likes it or not.

Ha. _Literally._

Despite that brief moment of amusement, Leland is absolutely _fuming_ as he stomps across the building, slamming the office door behind him and nearly pitching the newspaper at the doctor. His words come as a furious bark. “What the fuck is _this,_ Harlan?”

Harlan fights the urge to jump in reaction. “Well,” he drawls, “It would appear to be today’s newspaper, Leland.”

“Read the first fucking word,” Leland spits, his temper rising at Harlan’s flippancy. “Hell, read the first fucking paragraph! They’re onto the Fund, _Harlan._ Listen to this—” He presses his finger into the front page, right above the very first sentence. “ _‘The Phelps scandal was staged.’_ It’s in plain fucking black and white, for all of Los Angeles to see!” He clenches his fist— he’s close to snapping, blood boiling as he points right at the man across from him. There’s a very real threat to his tone. “And I don’t think I have to tell you _what_ will happen if you talk back to me.”

Harlan maintains composure, as he carefully takes the newspaper and flattens it on his desk. A frown tugs at his lips. “Ah,” he says, “That is a problem, but not one I had anything to do with, if that is what you are fearing.” He brings his gaze up to meet Leland’s. “What do you propose we do about it?”

“ _We?_ ” Leland asks incredulously, his anger only growing. “This was _your_ idea, Harlan. _You_ got us into this shit in the first place!” He takes a step closer, and there’s a tense moment where it feels like a punch is about to come. But Leland stops, expression changing from one of white hot rage to one of grave realization. He gives a short, dry laugh— it’s not entirely there. “This was your idea,” he repeats. With a deep scowl, he points right at the doctor yet again. “You’re out.”

“Out?” Harlan questions, eyebrows raised. He moves to stand, palms against the surface of his desk. “With all due respect, I would think that I am a little too valuable to be thrown out like yesterday’s garbage over one mistake.”

Leland falls deathly silent. There’s another shift in his demeanor— his mouth twitches into a terrible smirk, and he _knows_ he has the upper hand. He’s been manipulating the young doctor to meet his own needs for _years;_ why stop now? “You’re either out,” he begins, tone eerily calm, “or you _know_ what’s coming next.”

Harlan’s hands curl into fists on top of his desk and it’s clear he’s holding himself back. “Alright then,” he says, “I _am_ out. By my _own_ volition.” He flattens his hands back out and offers Leland a polite smile— one that holds malicious undertones. “I kindly ask you to leave my office at once. If it comes to it, I am not above calling the police to report you for trespassing.”

Sly grin dropping, Leland gives Harlan a glare that sends a shudder through the doctor’s spine and painful flashbacks through his mind. Leland takes a step forward, almost leering over him at this point. “Then you’ve just lost your largest investor.” His voice is low, chilling. He doesn’t seem to care at all about the threat of the police— in fact, he gets even closer, leaning over Harlan’s desk and placing his hands on the surface. “Is that what you want?”

Harlan stands tall. “Perhaps it is,” he says, voice firm, “I do believe this was a long time coming. I have other investors who are more than happy to keep supporting me. You would hardly be a true loss, _Monroe_.”

With a scoff, Leland backs off. He puts on a sardonic smile— holds out a hand, awaiting a handshake. “It was nice doing business with you, _Fontaine,_ ” he bites out, words dripping with venom.

Determination in his eyes, Harlan takes the other man’s hand and gives it a firm, businesslike shake. “I would argue it wasn’t,” he says coolly, “Now if you will, you may see yourself out. I’d tell you to have a nice day, but— well, my mother always said that lying was a sin and I believe she would be none-too-pleased with me.” He laughs, as if making a joke with a friend.

Leland doesn’t say anything at first, his dark stare barely wavering as he gives Harlan’s hand a threatening squeeze before letting go. “I knew you’d grow a sense of humor one day,” he snarls, turning around and leaving the office.

As soon as the door slams shut, Harlan breathes out a deep sigh and sinks into his chair. Well, to say the least, _that_ had been the most nerve-wracking experience of his life. However, despite it all, there is… a distinct lightness to his chest. It’s nice; he can’t quite remember the last time he’s felt this way. He can’t help but break down into laughter— loud, almost manic hysterics that leave him with tears rolling down his cheeks.

It only hits him what to do next once he’s calmed down and composed himself. Without a second thought, he moves to stand and head to the phone. It takes even less thought to dial the number in mind. Once the man on the other line picks up, he speaks with a smile.

“Roy? It’s Harlan. It would appear that you were right.”

 

* * *

 

Stefan had been unable to sleep right since the first article dropped.

He knows it’s obvious; he couldn’t look in the mirror without noticing the heavy, dark circles under his eyes. When Roy had pointed it out one night, he’d waved it off with a laugh and said it was nothing. And it really _was_ nothing, because Cole’s wellbeing was at the forefront of his mind— now and forever, probably, after everything that’s happened. Stefan could survive on far less sleep than he was getting.

And that’s a good thing, because if he _had_ been sleeping through the night, then he wouldn’t have been out early enough in the morning to see the newspapers hit the stands first thing. He practically lunges forward to grab a copy when he notices Cole’s picture on the front page again, assuming the worst and—

 _Innocent_.

Never had a word sounded so _good_.

Stefan barely registers anything that happens between him buying the newspaper and getting home. Before he knows it, he’s all but jumping onto the bed, accidentally knocking Roy into the floor. He chooses to ignore the other man’s grumbling to focus on Cole— who, as always, looked like an utter angel when asleep, the lines in his face smoothed out. God, if somebody had told him a few months ago that this was a sight he’d wake up to every morning, he’d have laughed in their face.

“Cole,” he says, gently shaking him awake, “Get up. You need to see this morning’s headline.” He’s grinning so wide that his cheeks are starting to hurt— it’s a good hurt. “I think you’re going to like it.”

Roy’s sitting up on the floor, arms resting on the edge of the bed and an unamused look on his face. “It better be a damned good headline if I ended up down here for it.”

Stefan’s grin doesn’t falter at Roy’s complaining. “Best damn headline I’ve seen in weeks,” he says, and he smooths Cole’s hair out of his face, pressing a kiss to his cheek— then another. “Come on, wake up, sweetheart.”

Cole stirs ever-so-slightly, groaning softly and pressing his cheek into the pillow. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, eyes still shut tightly.

Stefan continues to pepper kisses all over his face. “You _really_ need to see this,” he says, “You won’t want to sleep when you do, honestly.”

It seems that Cole can’t help but smile at all of the love, letting out a soft chuckle and shifting around. “Alright, alright,” he says, sitting up with a yawn. He rubs at his eyes before opening them, half-lidded and sleepy. “What is it?”

Grin getting impossibly wider, Stefan holds up the newspaper so the front page is completely visible. “Guess who’s apparently _innocent?_ ”

 _That_ gets Cole to wake up. His eyes snap open and he grabs the newspaper right out of Stefan’s hands, eyes darting back and forth frantically as he reads. He opens his mouth to speak— shuts it, a distinct watery sheen to his eyes as he looks up at Stefan. “Oh my God.”

Interest piqued, Roy scrambles up onto the bed and takes the newspaper next. Then, a grin of his own tugging at his lips, he pulls the other two into a tight hug and ruffles Cole’s hair. “See? Things worked out,” he says, and he presses his lips to Cole’s temple, then to Stefan’s cheek. “We can finally move on.”

Cole breathes out a high, shaky laugh, pulling Roy and Stefan even closer. “I— am I dreaming?” He laughs again, the tears in his eyes very nearly spilling down his cheeks. “Quick, somebody pinch me.”

“I mean, I could but—” Roy leans in for a kiss. “Got better things in mind.”

Stefan lets out a laugh. “You know what?” he says, “That’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at _all._ ” His grin is back in full-force, although less cheerful and more on the sultry side. “Let’s celebrate.”

Eyebrows raising, Cole glances between them with his own lascivious grin. “Shall I lie back down?”

With a laugh, Stefan simply moves to push him down onto the bed— but they’re interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing from across the apartment. Roy lets out a groan. “I’ll get it,” he says, “You two take too fuckin’ long on the phone.” He doesn’t wait for either of them to argue before he’s heading out into the living room and picking up the phone, effectively silencing it. “Hello?”

The person on the other line’s smooth, Southern-accented voice takes him by surprise. “Roy? It’s Harlan.” _Jeez, he has good timing_. “It would appear that you were right.”

At that, Roy’s surprise only grows. “That’s a Hell of a statement coming from you, Harlan,” he says. “What, exactly, am I right about?” He has a feeling he already knows; he can tell from the way that Harlan sounds genuinely _cheerful_ for once, as if all of his worries are gone.

“I have left the Fund,” Harlan says simply, like he’s merely reporting the weather outside. “Things went south and Monroe threatened to cut me out of the Fund himself, so… I took the initiative and left on my own accord.” He sounds ridiculously pleased with himself; Roy knows he has a right to be. The things that Harlan’s told him about Leland, about the past few _years…_ The doctor continues before Roy can finish the thought. “It feels _good,_ Roy. Far too good.”

Roy raises his eyebrows. “So, we’re both out,” he remarks. “We should meet up and talk about this more, but uh—” He furrows his brows, then, glancing towards the bedroom. “I’m busy right now.”

“Of course,” Harlan drawls. “I’d hate to cut into your time with your, erm… companions.” He clears his throat. “Well, I just wanted to let you know the current situation, but I suspect we will be in touch, Roy. You know how to reach me.” With that, he hangs up.

For a moment, Roy merely stares at the phone. _Well,_ he thinks, _that’s something._

He’ll worry about it later.

 

* * *

 

The LAPD has suffered many scandals in its time.

Drugs, money, sex— unimaginable corruption, years worth of rising action leading to a horrifyingly intense climax and the deaths of many. In comparison, this is _nothing,_ but at the same time… it’s everything. There’s no body count, yet still by abandoning one of their own, they _killed_ him. Everybody knew that, even those who did not approve; even those who turned away in scorn of a man who used to be an angel in their eyes.

That’s why this morning feels so _refreshing_ to James.

To him, Cole is the son he never had. Seeing such an upstanding, guarded man crucified for the same secret he’s kept for his entire life sent a long-buried fear crawling up his spine, and if he didn’t have Rusty by his side he doesn’t know _what_ he would have done. He spent _every day_ praying that everything would be fine, that the world would right itself and life would carry on as it had been before.

For the first time in years, it seems that God listened to him.

As it is, he’s standing back while the Chief of Police, William Worrell, delivers a press statement on the steps to the station’s entrance. Rusty is by his side— he’s not technically _allowed_ to be, but neither of them particularly care about the rules right now. Worrell, despite his best efforts to hide his discomfort, is very obviously struggling with this speech; it must never have crossed his mind that he’d need to give a public apology.

James can’t help but smile, standing tall and proud. He glances towards Rusty, his smile only growing as he reaches out to place a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Can you believe this, Fin?” He asks, turning his gaze back to flock of reporters snapping photos and taking notes. “ _This_ is justice.”

Rusty hums. There’s a twitch in his cheek— he’s trying to suppress a smile of his own. “It’s what the kid deserves,” he says, and he glances at James, eyebrows raised. He lowers his voice before he continues. “That, and it’s _very_ satisfying watching that ass Worrell stumble all over himself. _You_ should have his job, y’know.”

James shakes his head with a chuckle, disregarding Rusty’s comment as a joke. “I’m afraid that I’m underqualified,” he remarks, pleasant smile still on his face as he gazes at the other man. “Really. Worrell has been here _much_ longer than I have.”

At that, Rusty rolls his eyes. “Bullshit,” he says, “You practically already run this place as it is. Worrell’s just the man with the fancy title.” He scoffs slightly. “All he does is show up when there’s trouble and give a speech. Any other time, he’s down at the country club schmoozing the city’s richest investors over golf.”

James’s smile drops. His eyebrows furrow as he puts a hand to his chin in thought, staring up at nothing. He’s never before considered the possibility of being _Chief—_ he’s always been content with being the Homicide captain, nothing more and nothing less. However, perhaps a change is needed; in all his years on the force, he hasn’t seen Worrell lift a finger except for situations such as this. “You know,” he starts, eyes dropping to Rusty. “You may be right.”

With a snort, Rusty claps a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “By now, I would think you know that I’m _always_ right,” he says, and carefully, he lets his hand drop to rest on the small of James’s back. “I’d also hope you know how much I believe in you.”

That smile comes back in full force. James moves his own hand to Rusty’s back, his stare filled with adoration as he keeps his eyes on the other man’s face. “And I’d hope that _you_ know how much I love you.”

Chuckling softly, Rusty leans in to whisper. “I love you more,” he says, “Always have, always will.” He pulls back and clears his throat. “There’s still going to be a bit of damage control to do after this.”

James is about to continue with an _‘I love you most,’_ but Rusty has a good point. He pauses, giving a low hum in contemplation as he glances to the side. “That’s correct, yes,” he says, bringing his gaze back to Rusty. “I suppose I must speak to Archie about this, but—” He shudders ever-so-slightly. “You know I avoid him as fervently as possible.”

Rusty makes a face, as if he’s just swallowed something disgusting. “If you _have_ to,” he says, “but if he says anything out of line, I’m not against breaking his car windows.” He snorts. “Again. You’d think he’d have learned after that. _Nope_.”

James lets out a sputtering laugh, covering his mouth modestly. “My _Lord,_ I completely forgot,” he manages to get out around quiet snickers, eventually calming down and clearing his throat. “But yes, I’ll make sure to tell you if anything comes up. He knows full well that Phelps is a good detective; if he refuses to accept him back into Vice, he’s letting his _prejudices_ interfere with his work.”

“Hasn’t stopped him before,” Rusty says with a scoff, “Somebody needs to put that jackass in his place, honestly.” He shakes his head. “We can worry about it later. Today, let’s focus on the good. Celebrate a little.”

James raises his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips as he holds eye contact with Rusty. “There’s that unopened bottle of champagne at home,” he says nonchalantly, his smile growing into a reserved grin. “How does that sound?”

Rusty hums, rubbing James’s back. “Sounds perfect,” he says, “but anything’s perfect when you’re around.”

James breathes a soft laugh, fully intending to give a response, but he comes to a complete stop once he hears something utterly _astounding_ come out of Worrell.

“…And that sheer determination, that unmatched hunger for justice, is why Detective Phelps will return to the LAPD first thing tomorrow morning.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a bright, sunny smile on Lola’s face as she makes her way through the station.

Normally, after a morning of dealing with Worrell, she’d be absolutely ready to _quit_ _,_ but— not even that bastard (a term she uses very, very sparingly) could ruin her good mood. She feels light, almost weightless, and that was a nice change from the way she’s been feeling. Ever since the first article had dropped, there’d been a distinct heaviness to her chest and shoulders— for multiple reasons. At the forefront, there was the fact she’d already been worrying about Detective Phelps since long before that nasty exposé had come out (pun not intended at all). They were only friends in passing, but nevertheless, Lola had a bleeding heart and the whole _drowning_ thing had ultimately made her concerned for his well being. She supposes, though, that maybe she can stop and breathe now that the scandal has been dealt with. That thick, unbearable tension that’d been looming over the entire station had evaporated and around her, her fellow co-workers were smiling, laughing, _joking_ — something that had all but disappeared overnight after the first claim.

For the first time in a long while, things are _good_. There’s nothing to worry about any more and Lola’s smile only grows as she comes to her desk. Her dearest friend, Louise Howard, is already sitting at the one next to hers and she takes a minute to just admire the other woman— those perfect heart-shaped victory rolls atop her head, her warm brown eyes, and that red painted smile that could melt the heart of even the cruelest movie villain, but most of the time, only served to make Lola’s own heart skip a beat every time it was sent her way. Breathing out a content sigh, she moves to take a seat and adjust the skirt of her red dress. “Detective Phelps will be returning to work tomorrow,” she says, and she pulls her typewriter closer so she can start catching up on the work she’d needed to do this morning before she’d been called to attend to Worrell, “Think we should go out and celebrate?”

Louise shifts her attention towards Lola, eyebrows raised and smile on her face. Just like that, Lola’s heart starts pounding in her chest like it has something to prove. “Oh, that’s _wonderful_ news,” she says, absolutely beaming, “We should get a few drinks after work.” She drops her gaze back to her own typewriter, focusing on her work for a moment, but she’s still smiling when she continues. “Do you want to invite anybody else? I’m sure we won’t be the only ones making plans for tonight.”

Lola hums and fiddles with her blonde curls for a moment, twisting one around her finger. Truthfully, she’d rather just go out with Louise _alone,_ but— that’d be too bold of her to ask. Too bold and… well, she’s not too sure how she’d feel if the other woman rejected her feelings. Heartbroken, probably. “We could ask Detective Maxwell if he wants to tag along,” she says, “He’s always a good time.” A pause, as she goes over the list of possible people in her head. “I don’t think Detective Cappelli’s been invited to a quote-unquote station outing yet. It’d be nice to include him, maybe. I’m sure he’d feel more welcome here if we did.”

“Both are good options,” Louise says, fingers gliding over the keys of her typewriter with a certain skill. She seems to be in thought, as well, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched up. It’s unfairly adorable. “I don’t think Detective Levine would be too keen on going out with us. He’s never been very social and I’m not sure he likes drinking, anyway.” She stops to pull the page from her typewriter and set it aside before putting another in to continue her work. “There’s Betty, though. Lord knows that girl loves her alcohol.”

“Is it the alcohol she loves or the attention she gets from men at the bar?” Lola snorts slightly and shakes her head. She needs to get started on her own work and so, she moves to type. “I don't know, Lou. It's up to you who we invite, honestly. There’s nobody here that I'm not fond of.” She snorts again. “Besides Colmyer, of course, but I really do hope you'd never invite _him_ to go drinking with us.”

That gets a laugh out of Louise— airy, almost melodic, and Lola falls a little more in love. “Goodness _no!_ I think I'd sooner burn my favorite dress than go _anywhere_ with Colmyer.” She turns her full attention to Lola, then, still all smiles. “You know, honey, we don't _need_ to invite anybody else. Just the two of us would be fine with me. I do enjoy your company, after all.”

There's a rush of heat to Lola's cheeks, red blooming across her face and up to her ears. “I—” She clears her throat when her voice comes out in a squeak. “I wouldn't mind that.” She fights to push her blush down. “I mean, if it's alright with you, of course!”

Louise laughs again. “Honey, I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't,” she says, and her expression turns sly. “Though, I'm wondering how blunt I have to be before you realize I'm actually asking you on a _date_.”

All she can get out in response is a high-pitched, nervous titter. Funny how a single word could send Lola into an absolute _tizzy_. The heat in her face is suddenly _much_ worse and she’s sure that she’s managed to turn a completely _new_ shade of red— possibly one that hasn’t been named or even invented yet. Her heart is racing even faster, too; she wouldn’t be surprised if she went into cardiac arrest right here and now. _Get a hold of yourself, my God_. Breathing in deeply, she manages to speak. “Well, I wouldn’t ever say _no_ to a question like that.” She ducks her head in hopes that she can at least hide her a blush a little bit. “I just, uh— well, I thought you were being friendly. That’s all.”

Louise giggles, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Oh, you’re _adorable_ _,_ ” she says, and she drops her hand to show off that dazzling smile of hers, “Lola, I dare say we’ve already _been_ dating. We go out almost every night.” A pause, as she gestures vaguely. “Not to mention, you’ve made me dinner _and_ slept in my bed with me before. What exactly is your definition of _friendly?_ ”

“Whatever it is, it’s the wrong one, apparently,” Lola says, expression all-too-sheepish. She brushes some unruly curls behind her ear— fidgeting with her hair is her one nervous habit and right now, she had everything to be nervous about. “So, uh— I guess that means we’re going on a date tonight?”

With another giggle, Louise echoes, “We’re going on a date tonight.” She turns her attention back to her typewriter then, but that sly grin is back in place. “I’m expecting a kiss goodnight this time.”

Heart still going as fast as it possibly can, there’s only one, clear thought in Lola’s head: _Good lord, this woman is going to kill me._ “A kiss goodnight,” she says, fighting to push her blush down again, “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I would hope so,” Louise says, and she’s _still_ grinning— now that Lola thinks about it, it’s less of a grin and more of a smirk. She _knows_ exactly what she’s doing. Damn her. “You know, I might even let you get away with more than that.”

And at that, Lola chokes on nothing but air.

 

* * *

 

When Harry saw that in- _fuckin’_ -credible headline, his morning went from good to great.

He’s been real sore over this whole Phelps situation; the kid’s a swell guy with a heart of gold, he picked up that much after working with him for a couple of cases back in Burglary. Hell, he kind of _missed_ the drip when he moved on up to better things, but _c’est la vie,_ right? That’s why this shit’s been bugging him for so long, he guesses— that and something else.

Well. _Someone_ else.

Harry hates seeing Ralph so on edge. Usually _he’s_ the one making wise-cracks and brightening up the room, not tiptoeing over eggshells like a paranoid mess. It’s weird and it makes Harry uncomfortable as all Hell, but… he can’t blame the guy. He’s known for a _while_ that Ralph was a different kind of man; he found out the first night they spent together, after a long case and an even longer stay at a bar. He had definitely been expecting something _else,_ but he didn’t care then and he doesn’t care now.

Other people wouldn’t be so accepting. He knew that full well, so a few secret rendezvous later he made a promise to Ralph— a promise to stick by his side and protect him, no matter what. Granted, he might’ve been a little too drunk and way too emotional, but it felt _nice_ to commit himself to someone like that.

And even now, when it’s getting more serious, when they’re not afraid to say _‘I love you’_ and call each other pet names like some kind of married couple, it still feels like Heaven.

Closing the door softly behind him, Harry enters the bedroom of his apartment, newspaper in hand as he crosses to the bed. Ralph looks to be sleeping soundly for this first time in forever— Harry almost doesn’t want to wake him up. With a loving hum, he sits on his own side of the bed, giving Ralph an affectionate stroke of the cheek. “You gotta wake up, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to the sleeping man’s temple. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Ralph mumbles something incoherent, shifting slightly. He blinks his eyes open, then, staring up at Harry blearily and propping himself up on his elbow. He runs a hand through his hair, but it simply falls in place once more; he’d been complaining for a while that he needed a haircut and it was getting obvious. “Mm, what is it? I’m tired.” His voice is soft and filled with sleep.

Harry can’t hide the _love_ in his eyes when their gazes meet, hand resting on Ralph’s cheek for a moment. He only pulls back to hand him the newspaper. “Read the front page,” he says, a lopsided grin on his face. “I think you’ll like it.”

Ralph takes the newspaper from him with a hum, eyes skimming over the article. The whole time, his face is steadily breaking out in a grin. Then, with an excited expression, he tosses it aside and moves to throw his arms around Harry’s neck, nearly pulling him down in the process. “I can’t believe this!” He exclaims, “ _God,_ this is a breath of fresh air.” He lets out a bubbly laugh. “Feels like a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.”

Harry breathes out a laugh of his own, wrapping his arms around Ralph and holding him in a tight hug. “I knew you’d be thrilled to hear this,” he says, voice slightly muffled by his face being buried into Ralph’s hair. A hand moves to the back of the man’s head, threading through his dark locks and petting softly. “I’m _real_ happy for you, baby. I’m happy for _us._ ”

Laughing again, Ralph nuzzles his face against Harry’s neck. “I _love_ you,” he says, “I love you so much.” He pulls back enough to look him in the face, one hand moving to his cheek. His grin hasn’t faltered, not one bit. “I’m glad we’re together. I probably wouldn’t have lasted without you by my side.”

Although that feels nice to hear, Harry’s smile falters. His own hand moves to rest on Ralph’s cheek, rubbing softly with his thumb in a deeply intimate gesture. “Hey, now,” he says, “you’re stronger than you think, okay? You’ve gone through your entire life with the wrong name, the wrong identity…” He trails off, shaking his head and leaning in to press their foreheads together. “You’re an _inspiration,_ Ralph. Don’t ever forget it.”

There’s a certain redness to Ralph’s face, creeping all the way up to his ears. “I don’t know about all _that,_ ” he says, “but sure sounds awfully nice coming out of your mouth.” He moves in to rub his nose against Harry’s. “I’ll keep it in mind next time I’m feeling down, though. Really, how do you always know _just_ what to say? You got somethin’ you’re hiding from me?”

Harry snorts, pulling back a bit with a mischievous grin on his face. “I’m a mind reader,” he jokes, taking his hand off of Ralph’s cheek only to rest it under his chin, thumb dangerously close to his lips. “I bet I could tell you what you’re thinkin’ _right_ now.”

Ralph hums, something of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, you _really_ wanna bet on that?”

One hand moving down to Ralph’s hip, Harry leans in to whisper. “Yeah, I do,” he says, grin only widening. “You gonna let me prove it?”

Ralph pretends to be thinking it over. “That depends,” he says, “You’ll have to stop talking and use your mouth for better things first.”

With a low chuckle, Harry begins to trail kisses down Ralph’s body.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy Little had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and he’d already decided that this city was a _lot_ more insane than San Francisco.

That opinion was not a hard one to form, considering that in the short time he’s been working here as a reporter, he’d bore witness to a flurry of newspaper articles about an outed detective by the name of Cole Phelps. He couldn’t help but feel sympathy— especially when he’d heard what terrible things his male coworkers had been saying on the topic. It’d left a pit in his stomach, really, and for good reason because to put it simply, he was _just_ like this Phelps man when it came to romantic endeavors. This was _exactly_ why he’d left home; he’d been looking for a reprieve from the knowing, almost hateful looks he got everywhere he went.

His boss, Sylvia Sharpe, must’ve noticed his discomfort; at some point, she’d pulled him aside and asked him if everything was alright. He’d blabbered out an excuse to her, and then blabbered out the same excuse to another reporter, Diana Hughes, when she’d stopped him on his way out of Sylvia’s office. They both meant well; he wasn’t going to fault them for their concern and really, he did appreciate knowing that at least _somebody_ would be supportive if, God forbid, _he_ was ever outed.

He’d tried to focus on other things after that, but— the universe wouldn’t let him. As luck would have it, Penelope Harper Lawrence herself had come swaggering into the bullpen last week with determination in her eyes and one word on her lips.

 _Innocent_.

Cole Phelps had been wrongfully accused (or so that’s what Penny claimed; he could see that glint in her eyes that meant this was some sort of scheme), but that didn’t stop the sharp words and comments that continued to be whispered among the other men in the office. So, unable to handle it any longer, Jimmy had excused himself for a far-too-early lunch and some fresh air. Right now, he’s leaning against the front window of a diner, ignoring the front page of the newspaper for the sports section.

The predictions were _way_ off, and so were the scores. Did they even pay _attention_ to the game? Yeah, no, probably not and he hated the men who worked the sports beat anyway; they were a pack of assholes who probably picked on kids half their size back in high school while throwing around derogatory terms. This... wasn’t helping to improve his mood, not in the least. With a scoff, he tosses the paper in the nearest trash can and picks up his cup of coffee from where he’d sat it on the ledge of the window. It’s already cold, but he downs the rest of it anyway and tosses that away, too. Then, with a deep, deep sigh, he pushes off of the building and ponders his next move. He had no plans on heading back to the office anytime soon, not until he’s fully cooled down, so he decides to just… walk in any direction and see where he ends up.

As it turns out, where he ends up is right outside a florist, running straight into another person who’s leaving the shop with an armful of flowers. It probably wouldn’t have been _that_ bad of an accident if it wasn’t for those _damned_ legs of his; he’s unable to right his feet before he tumbles to the ground and takes the poor soul with him in a tangled heap of limbs and petals.

Immediately, he goes to apologize— all that comes out is a loud sneeze from having flowers unceremoniously shoved in his face. “Sorry!” Jimmy exclaims, and he doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know that he’s blushing red all the way up to his ears, “I wasn’t— I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He sneezes again, this time into his elbow, knocking his glasses askew in the process. He’s quick to adjust them and— God, they’re both still sprawled on the ground, huh?  He’s quick to scramble to his feet and smooth out his clothes before holding out a hand to help the other person up. “Sorry. Really, I— I am.” _Stop stuttering, you idiot._ “Are you— are you alright?” _Good job_.  

The man he had run into rubs his forehead, groaning softly. “Jeez, I didn’t know I traded my right foot for a left,” he remarks, opening his eyes and immediately making Jimmy’s heart pound. His eyes are an enchantingly smaragdine hue, belonging to a handsome face with a subversively soft jawline, every inch of his warm-toned skin covered in freckles. He opens his mouth to speak— shuts it, running a hand through his auburn hair. “Uh— no need to apologize, pal. _I’m_ sorry; I wasn’t exactly focusing on the real world.”

Jimmy’s face is _unbearably_ hot and he desperately hopes this stranger doesn’t notice that his palms are sweating when he pulls him to his feet. “Still,” he says, “It’s— I was—” He lets out a frustrated noise. “I’m an _idiot_.” He laughs— it’s high-pitched and all sorts of nervous. “Uh— well, if you won’t take my apology, at least take an introduction.” He wipes his hand on his pants before offering it again— this time, for a handshake. “I’m James Little. I mean, I go by _Jimmy_ actually, so— you can call me that, if you want. Most people do. Haven’t been able to lose the nickname since I was a kid.” A sheepish grin tugs at his lips. _You’re rambling_. “I’ll uh, shut up before this becomes a one-sided conversation.”

The man stares for a moment with raised brows, then he lets out a small laugh of his own— less nervous than Jimmy’s, but at the same time a little sad. He adjusts the bouquet of flowers in his arms, moving it to one side so he has a free hand. “Jimmy, then,” he says, shaking his hand and giving the best smile he can muster. “My name’s Lottie McHale. I run a bar, uh— _We Speak Latin._ ” He hasn’t let go of Jimmy’s hand yet, face flushing when he glances down and realizes it. He finally breaks contact, shoving his hand in his pocket and forcing another awkward laugh. “Sorry. I guess I’m just in need of some kindness today.”

Jimmy offers him another smile. “No worries,” he says, “I’m, uh— well, I’m a reporter, you see, so I daresay I’m a good listener. Comes with the territory.” A pause, as he runs a hand back through his hair. “I’d argue I’m an even better friend if you need one. I mean, not to sound conceited.” He puts on an inquisitive look, then, giving Lottie a once-over. His next words take on the fast-pace that he’s perfected for his line of work. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say the flowers aren’t for a girlfriend— definitely not for a wife, but I don’t know, maybe you’re not the type to wear his ring everywhere. So, either you’re visiting a grave—understandable, considering we’re only two years out from the war—or they’re for yourself. Which one’s right?”

Lottie breathes out a breathy laugh, dropping his head. “You’re intense,” he says, bringing his eyes back up to Jimmy’s face. “They’re for me, yeah.” He’s about to continue, but— he closes his mouth, instead giving a weak smile. “It’s my birthday today. Nobody really cared, so…” He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing more than another Monday. “I wanted to try and cheer myself up.”

“Ah,” Jimmy says, and that smile of his is sheepish again. “Sorry, the reporter part of me took over there.” He rubs at his neck, cheeks reddening slightly. “Well, I wouldn’t say _nobody_ cares. I just met you and I— I definitely care, y’know? Nobody deserves to be alone on their birthday.” He swallows hard— his mouth is suddenly very, very dry. “Do you drink coffee?” 

At that, Lottie’s eyes widen. The flush of his cheeks only grows deeper, his nose lighting up a bright red. “I— yes, I do,” he says, holding the bouquet of flowers closer to his chest. His lips twitch into a smile, eyes half-lidded as he lets his gaze roam Jimmy’s entire form. It takes him a _long_ time to bring his stare back to Jimmy’s face, but when he does, he tilts his head ever-so-slightly as his smile grows sly. “Are you asking me on a date?”

 _Oh_. There’s that rush of warmth to Jimmy’s cheeks again— and he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t gone _lower_. He’s always been too easy to fluster; it’s his one downfall. “I— I mean—” He breathes out a nervous laugh and runs a hand through his brunette curls. He tries not to completely stumble all over his words when he continues. “If you’re okay with that, then— yes. I do think I’m asking you on a date.”

Lottie bites his lip, eyes flicking downwards before darting back up. He seems to have noticed his effect on Jimmy— and it looks as if he’s _very_ pleased with himself. “Coffee, then,” he says, moving to stand beside Jimmy and take his hand. It’s an incredibly small gesture, but it leaves Jimmy weak all the same. Grinning wide, Lottie gazes right into his eyes. “Shall we?”

Swallowing hard, Jimmy nods. “Yes,” he manages to choke out, and his voice only cracks a _little,_ “We shall.”

 

* * *

 

Chewing on the end of his pencil, Ray leans back in his chair.

So, the whole— _debacle_ with Phelps was over and done with. He's happy for the kid; even more happy that he can actually _leave_ the basement without getting pulled into a conversation on the topic. Well, no, now that he’s thinking about it... maybe he should stay down here for longer. There was still Phelps's return to the station to take into account after all, and he can only imagine the pure commotion that'll come out of that. Colmyer, bless his heart, would be less than pleased and if Ray can avoid _that_ shitstorm, it'd be a good day.

Still, he's restless. He shifts to stare up at the ceiling, focused on figuring out a pattern in it. Ray _liked_ patterns. You could find them in anything and something about that was… soothing. Comforting.

He's brought out of his frankly inane thoughts by somebody clearing their throat behind him. Oh good, company. He swivels around in his chair, coming face to face with Mal. “Carruthers!” he exclaims, “Always a pleasure. What can I do you for?”

Mal holds up a copy of the newspaper, front page facing Ray. He’s wearing his usual deadpan expression, though there’s an ounce of happiness, if the light in his eyes and the twitch of a smile is anything to go by. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the paper already.”

Ray grins widely. “That I have, my dear coroner,” he says, and he leans back in his chair. “It’s the best news this station has seen in weeks, ain’t it?” He lets out a boisterous laugh. “Good news or not, I’m afraid I’m still stuck down here until Colmyer’s thrown his fit. Is he already stomping around up there? I think I could recognize the sound of his shoes on the floor.”

“Why, yes,” Mal says, coming up next to Ray and setting the newspaper on the nearest desk, “he is.” There’s a barely-noticeable color to the coroner’s cheeks, now— most likely due to the awfully affectionate nickname that Ray had referred to him with just moments before. Mal clears his throat, moving to sit on the desk and adjust his tie. “Not even Worrell’s as upset as he is.” He glances down at Ray. “Do you think he had something to do with the original article?”

With a slight hum, Ray swivels his chair to face Mal completely before crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward on the arm rest. “I haven’t ruled out the possibility,” he says, “but I’d hazard a guess that Phelps has more enemies than we can list. Could be damn near anyone in this city.” He furrows his eyebrows, then. “I suppose we might not ever even find out who was responsible. Shame, really— whoever decided to put such a nasty…” A pause, and it’s clear he’s racking his brain for a word. “… _‘rumor’_ out there needs to be brought to justice.” 

Mal raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms as he stares down at Ray. There’s that rare smile on his face, now, his interest piqued. “And how, pray tell, _would_ you bring this mysterious rat to justice?”

His grin returning, Ray merely says, “With my fists, of course.” He lets out another laugh, just as loud and boisterous as the last. “I’m joking. Although, I’m sure I could get one good hit in before whoever it was knocked me over.”

Surprisingly, Mal breathes a chuckle of his own, shaking his head. “Ray, you can’t even bring yourself to hurt a spider.”

Ray puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense. “How cruel!” he exclaims, “They’re harmless creatures with no self-defense. I’m simply appreciating what nature has given us by letting them back out the window where they belong.” He laughs once more. “Besides, there’s a difference between a spider and a _spider_.”

Mal scoffs, giving a fond roll of his eyes. “Is that what you told yourself when you decided to bring that _tarantula_ into our home?” He doesn’t let Ray respond at first, continuing on as soon as he opens his mouth. “I swear, every time I wake up with it crawling on my face, I am utterly _horrified._ ”

Ray rolls his own eyes just as fondly. “Excuse me, he _has_ a name,” he says, “ _Pierre_ is completely harmless. You’d be more likely to die at the hands of, say, a mutt on the street.” He reaches up to gently jab Mal in the chest. “Besides, he’s our _child_.”

“I still wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole,” Mal says dryly, one eyebrow raised. He exhales through his nose in what’s almost a laugh. “Child or not.”

“You are a terrible father, Mal,” Ray says, “Pierre loves you as much as I do.”

Mal’s deadpan expression finally breaks into one of bewilderment, and he lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “I don’t think that _Pierre,_ as you call him, is capable of human emotion.”

Ray scoffs. “Okay, then until you change your Pierre-hating ways, I want a divorce.”

Absolutely unfazed, Mal merely shrugs— by now, Ray knows that _he_ knows this type of thing is never serious, so he seems content to just play along. “Fine.”

Jabbing him in the chest once more, Ray moves to stand up. “You'll be hearing from my lawyers by next week.” With a laugh, he turns on his heel to leave. “And I won't be so lenient!”

Behind him, Mal chuckles. “You’ll be back,” he calls, humor hidden behind his always-solemn tone.

“Not this time!”

 

* * *

 

“Jack. _Jack._ Jack, wake up.”

Courtney is sitting on the edge of his and Jack’s bed, shaking his lover’s shoulder, the other man somehow still sound asleep. He can’t help but laugh— the one day Jack decides to get some extra rest, the most _amazing_ article to ever be written hits newspaper stands. He exhales sharply through his nose when his arm gets tired, instead leaning in to press a flurry of kisses to Jack’s face. “ _C’mon,_ Jack, you’re gonna _love_ this.”

Jack begins to stir, and it isn’t long before he lets out a tired groan. “Courtney, can’t it wait? I’m exhausted.”

“Nope,” Courtney says, popping the _‘p.’_ He practically shoves the newspaper into Jack’s face, a grin brightening up his own. “Read it.”

With another groan, Jack moves to sit up and take the newspaper from the other man. It takes him a minute to fully comprehend what he’s reading, but when he does— “Holy _shit_.” Face practically lighting up, he tosses the pages aside with little caution and pulls Courtney in for a quick, but passionate kiss. “God, I haven’t felt this _relieved_ in my life,” he says once he pulls away.

Courtney lets out a bubbly laugh, both hands cupping Jack’s face as he presses their foreheads together. “I know,” he says, “isn’t it great?” He laughs again, moving to give Jack a feather-light kiss and pulling back before it can go too far. “We can finally relax, y’know?” He opens his eyes, gazing right into Jack’s own. “And you _definitely_ need to. Don’t argue with me.”

Humming, Jack wraps his arms around Courtney. “You _like_ it when I argue with you.” There’s a teasing grin on his face— a rare sight, one that leaves Courtney breathless. “Ever consider that sometimes I do it on purpose?”

“Oh, I _know_ you do,” Courtney says, one hand moving to Jack’s chest. He returns the grin just as slyly, and he begins to push the other man onto his back. It seems that _both_ of them have completely forgotten about their guest asleep in the other room, too caught up in each other to care. “Why do you think I let you get away with it?”

Jack lets his hands slide down to Courtney’s hips. “I could hazard a guess or two,” he mumbles, looking up at the other man through half-lidded eyes. He takes a minute to just drag his gaze across his form in appreciation. “You know what? Relaxation doesn’t sound too bad with you on top of me.”

Courtney’s grin only widens as he begins to pull up Jack’s undershirt. All he says is, “I win.”

 

* * *

 

The moment Janice Merrill heard a suspicious _thump_ against the bedroom wall, she scrambled to get dressed and get out of that apartment as fast as possible.

She’s leaning against the wall of the lobby, now, rubbing at her eyes as she clears them of sleep. God, it’d be a lie if she said she wasn’t _happy_ for Jack and his new lover, but sometimes she just couldn’t stand the noise. Honestly, she considered going to stay with someone else— but who does she _know_ in this city? Nobody. She’s never been this far out of Kansas, even, and that just sends a sharp reminder that she’s completely _alone_ out here. Her mood drops significantly.

With a small groan, she squeezes her eyes shut and knocks the back of her head against the wall a few times, taking a deep breath and just… staying like that for a while, frown on her face. She’s about to suck it up and head outside when she hears a _beautifully_ familiar voice— one she thought she’d never hear again, as dramatic as that is.

“You doin’ alright there, princess?”

Janice’s eyes snap open to see the woman she’s been waiting to see for years; Catherine Kelso, known to everyone as Kitty. Immediately, her face lights up. “Oh my God!” She rushes forward to throw her arms around the girl before her, hugging tightly. “I’m so _happy_ to see you!”

Kitty looks moderately surprised at the sudden embrace, but nevertheless, she moves to return it. “Jeez, Jan,” she says, laughing quietly, “It’s just me. Not like you’ve ran into anybody special.” She pulls back to give Janice a quick once-over. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you? Thank _God_.”

Janice lets out a bubbly laugh, the dark clouds looming over her head having long dissipated by now. “That’s the thing; it’s special _because_ it’s you.” She reaches up to cup Kitty’s face, not caring that they’re in the middle of the tenement lobby. “And I, uh— I sure hope I haven’t.” She laughs again, letting her thumb run across Kitty’s cheek. “ _You’ve_ changed, I think, but… for the better.” The bright grin on her face turns a bit sheepish.

There’s a light dusting of pink to Kitty’s cheeks, but she plays it off with a louder laugh, gesturing towards her hair. It’s the shortest Janice’s ever seen it, coming to a stop just past her ears and styled so that’s it’s out of her face. More importantly, though— it’s _blonde_. “I did this not that long ago,” she says, “Impulse decision. Momma threw an absolute _fit_ — something about how I’m not appreciating my God-given looks.” She laughs again. “I don’t know where she got the idea that I give a damn what the Lord thinks of my _hair,_ but well, you know how she is. We did grow up together.”

“We did,” Janice says, grinning wide as she brushes a lock of blonde hair behind Kitty’s ear, pausing to admire it. Her smile only grows. “It fits you, I’d say. It’s a—” She clears her throat, her own cheeks coloring. Oh dear, she’s flustered herself; she curses her mind for wandering so easily. “A welcome change.”

Kitty barks out another laugh. “Y’really think so?” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket and beams, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Means a lot comin’ from you, princess. Gotta say.” She doesn’t give Janice anytime to consider her words before she’s barrelling forward, Southern drawl in full force. “Well, I was gonna use what little free time I have to visit dear ol’ Jack, but I’m assumin’ there’s a reason you’re down here actin’ like a kicked pup.”

“Yes, well—” Janice forces out a bit of an awkward laugh, rubbing at her neck and glancing towards the elevator. She’s let go of Kitty by now, but by God, she wants so desperately to reach out and kiss her. “I, um… I heard a bit too much, if you know what I mean.” Another uncomfortable laugh.

At that, Kitty wrinkles her nose and makes a disgusted face. “Oh my God, I shouldn’t have asked,” she says, “That’s _far_ more than I’ve ever wanted to know about my _brother_.” She pretends to gag, but quickly swings back into another laugh of her own. “Guess it’s just you and me, then. Have you had time to see the sights yet? We could go get some breakfast and then play tourist for the rest of the day.”

Janice’s heart skips a beat at the wonderfully melodic sound of Kitty’s laugh, and she doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know that she’s turned even redder. “That sounds fantastic,” she says all too quickly, taking both of Kitty’s hands in hers with an enthusiastic grin. “I’d— I’d _love_ that.”

Kitty gives her a grin of her own, one that completely lights up her face. “What are waitin’ for then, princess? The world to end?”

Janice merely responds with a light-hearted laugh, linking arms with Kitty and gazing up at her face with utterly enamoured eyes. “Nothing, I suppose,” she says, suppressing a girlish giggle as she starts towards the exit, practically dragging Kitty with her. “Come on!”

“Alright, alright!” Kitty laughs, letting the other woman pull her along. “Always so impatient.” She smiles then, all the more sincere and _loving._ “Not that I mind it.”

Snorting, Janice gives her a mock-offended look. “You’d _better_ not,” she says, jabbing a finger into Kitty’s chest. Her next words come without much forethought. “If you _did,_ I’m afraid that you’d never get a kiss out of me ever again.” She laughs— then, her smile slips, face flushing deeper than before. _Oh, I shouldn’t have said that._

Kitty clears her throat with a small cough. “Is that on the table? I mean, I… wasn’t sure it would be after— y’know, _everything_.” Her cheeks are uncharacteristically red. “God, will you just listen to me? I’m talkin’ like an absolute loon.”

Janice, breath caught in her throat and eyes wide, comes to a stop right before they reach the door, spinning around so she’s in front of Kitty and face-to-face with her. Finally exhaling, she reaches up to cup Kitty’s face, thumbs running across her cheeks. “Of _course,_ ” she says, heart pounding in her chest. “It’s been a while, yes, but—” She bites her lip, averting her gaze. “I, um… I haven’t taken any new lovers since.”

Kitty inhales sharply, her own eyes wide and clearly caught off guard. She takes a minute to speak, but when she does, it comes softly. “Is that true, Jan?” She’s vulnerable, for once— and that is quite the rarity to say the least. “Not a single one?”

Eyebrows knitting together, Janice shakes her head. “Not a single one,” she repeats, breathless and quick. She leans over, just a bit— there’s nobody in the lobby, not even the woman who’s usually by the front desk. When she comes back to stare up at Kitty, her eyes are filled with _stars._ “I— I know it may be too early, but, I mean— I’ve been _waiting_ to— it’s been _years,_ and all I’ve wanted to do is— can we—”

She’s cut off by Kitty capturing her lips in hers. Janice is predictably caught off-guard, but she quickly melts into it with a soft noise of surprise, wrapping her arms around Kitty’s neck and dipping herself back. One hand buried in her hair and the other on the small of Janice's back, Kitty deepens the kiss ever-so-slightly.

It doesn’t last long, as Janice breaks away at the sound of a door opening on the floor above them. She’s breathing heavily, her face red and pupils dilated— she’s absolutely _starstruck_ right now, her heart pounding in her chest as she gazes into Kitty’s eyes. “ _Wow,_ ” she exhales, brushing a few strands of hair out of the other woman’s face with a quiet laugh. “You’re— you’re better than I remember.”

Kitty gives her that all-too-familiar grin— the one that’s less of a sincere smile and more of a smirk. “Only for you, princess,” she says, and she lets that hand on her back go the _slightest_ bit lower before releasing her hold on the other woman. “ _Always_ for you.”

Janice’s breath is caught in her throat yet again, heart nearly beating out of her chest. She doesn’t say anything at first, but— the _warmth_ that Kitty’s words bring to her whole body is hard to ignore. With a hard swallow, she lets out a nervous laugh. “Um— is it too bold to ask that we skip breakfast?”

Kitty gives her a mock-gasp. “What kind of _lady_ would I be if I didn’t at least take you out first?” She lets the fake offense drop with a laugh of her own. “Guess we don’t necessarily _have_ to do things in order, though. Just gotta let me treat you to dinner later to make up for it.” With a wink, she continues. “I’d ask your place or mine, but— thinkin’ mine is the only option.”

Janice merely responds with a giddy giggle, mind swimming with _very_ inappropriate thoughts as she takes Kitty’s hand. “You’d be correct,” she manages to say, squeezing the other woman’s hand softly. A grin crosses her face as she leans up to whisper in Kitty’s ear, her next words more than sultry. “You know, I’d even let it be your car.”

“Well, damn,” Kitty says, “I like the sound of _that_.”

 

* * *

 

Leary wakes up to the phone screeching from across his apartment.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter when his head erupts in a massive ache, starting behind his eyes and radiating throughout his entire skull. _Fuck._ He drank too much. Again. With an irritated sigh, he moves to roll out of bed— stops when he notices that there’s a pair of arms around him. _Oh, right. Ronan._ He glances over his shoulder, turning over to face the other man and brush some dark hair out of his peaceful face. “I’m gonna go answer the phone,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

Ronan mumbles something incoherent, shifting slightly. “Don’t plan on it.”

Leary can’t help but breathe out a quick chuckle, pausing to kiss Ronan’s forehead before getting up and out of bed. He doesn’t get dressed immediately, proceeding to the main room of his apartment and crossing over to the kitchen, where the phone is hung up on a wall. It’s still ringing when he reaches out to pick it up, putting it to his ear and leaning against the wall. “Gordon Leary,” he says, still groggy, “who’s calling?”

“Gordon,” James starts, the sound of his voice shocking Leary awake, as if he’s been plunged into freezing water. “Have you just woken up?”

Leary rubs at the back of his neck, cheeks burning in— what, is that _shame?_ For fuck’s sake, he feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “I did. What’s going on?”

James goes quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. “There was an article published today on the front page, declaring Phelps’s innocence.” _Oh._ Well, _that’s_ something. Leary pushes his hair out of his face, staying silent as James goes on. “He’s going to return to work tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know; you were particularly aggravated by this whole…” James pauses to give a weak laugh. “ _Situation._ ”

“Right, yeah,” Leary says, tilting his head back until it hits the wall. He closes his eyes— takes a second to breathe. He’s relieved, for sure, just… it feels too good to be true. “This is— it’s over? It’s all over?”

“Yes, Gordon,” James says, “it’s over.” A round of silence passes between them, but he breaks it before it becomes stifling. “Are you coming into work today, lad?”

Leary runs a hand down his face. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. _Shit._ Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he hits his head against the wall. He didn’t mean to say yes. “Uh— yeah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“A few _hours?_ Gordon—”

Leary hangs up before he can finish, standing there and staring at the phone for what feels like forever. He snaps out of it with a sharp exhale, shaking his head and returning to his bedroom, standing in the doorway. By now, Ronan’s lying there with his head propped up by his arm, the familiar sight bringing a brief smile to Leary’s face. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. “Listen,” he starts, moving to sit down on the edge of their— _his_ bed. He doesn’t immediately meet Ronan’s eyes, gaze lowered. “I’ve gotta go into work today.”

Ronan hums, pushing some stray hairs out of his face. “S’fine,” he mumbles, “It’s your job. Wouldn’t ever ask you to pick me over it.” He moves to sit up fully and grumbles when his dark locks just fall back in his eyes. Running his fingers back through it and keeping them there, he fixes his green eyes on Leary. “I should probably go anyway. I’ve got a new set list to work on.”

Leary looks up, their stares locking. He _knows_ he just said he’d have to go to work, but… he’s got time, doesn’t he? He reaches out to cup Ronan’s jaw, rubbing the other man’s cheek with his thumb. “Stay,” he says, voice impossibly soft, a surprise to even himself. He shakes his head, eyes weighed down with something far heavier than exhaustion. “I _need_ you.”

Inhaling deeply, Ronan offers him a gentle smile. “I guess it can wait,” he says, and he leans in to press a featherlight kiss to Leary’s lips. “You’re more important.” A pause. “Besides, I’d rather lie around for a couple more hours than deal with the incessant _arguing_.”

With a low hum, Leary shifts to get back into bed, pulling Ronan close and holding him there for a long moment. He lets his eyes slip shut, their noses bumping when he moves to give the other man a kiss. “You’re too good to me,” he mutters, their lips brushing as he speaks.

Ronan lets out a low laugh, one hand running through Leary's hair. “Maybe,” he says, “but somebody needs to be, right?” He tilts the other man’s chin up to pepper kisses all over his face. In between each one, he continues, “We all deserve a little kindness from time to time.”

Leary can't help but chuckle at the onslaught of love, his grip moving to Ronan’s hips. There's a _whole_ lot of thoughts nagging at the back of his mind— something about how he's not good enough for someone like this, how he's far past his prime, how he's _using_ the poor guy… but he pushes it all away, not listening to a single one. He instead gives Ronan one of his signature grins, surprising the man with a squeeze on the behind. “I guess you're right,” he says, eyebrows raised and eyes half-lidded. “Now, though, I wonder… what are we gonna do for the next few hours?”

“Gee,” Ronan says, obviously feigning cluelessness, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” With a laugh, he moves to roll over and pull Leary on top of him. When he continues, there's a sleazy grin of his own on his face. “I think we can figure something out, don't you?”

Leary only responds with a laugh in return, leaning down to capture Ronan’s lips in his.

 

* * *

 

Adjusting the newspaper in his hands, Richie reads over the front page for what feels like the hundredth time that morning.

He could probably recite it, at this point. _Innocent_. Richie hates that the word fills him with such _relief_. He’d been trying not to worry about Cole— why should he? The man apparently wanted nothing to do with him, hadn’t since they were schoolboys, and that much was obvious by the fact that he never tried to write him even once. Still… even if he’s _bitter,_ even if he’s _angry,_ he’d never wish that original article on him. It was too serious of a claim; not even Cole deserved that. _Nobody_ did.

Frown only deepening, he folds the newspaper up and tosses it beside him on the couch. He needed to stop reading this. He needed to stop thinking. He needed distraction and— he spares a glance to the clock. Is Alan seriously still asleep? Richie knows it’s his day off, but… almost half the morning had gone by. Running a hand back through his ginger locks, he leans his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Maybe he should feel guilty that he’s only sleeping with the man because he looks like his childhood crush, because he’s a _distraction_ from the pain he felt. He _does_ feel guilty, actually, but… well, it’s too late to turn back now, right? The other man practically _lives_ in his apartment now; there’s a toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, shirts that he’d never dream of buying (much less _wearing;_ they’re bold, they’re brash, they’re almost tacky) in his dresser drawers, and every night, he comes home to a cooked meal like they’re _married_. Alan tidies everything up, too— normally, Richie leaves his books and mail wherever he sets them down, but the bookshelf was starting to see use and his mail was no longer piled up on the kitchen table. Even his art supplies had been relegated to one corner of the apartment, as per the other man’s request (less of a request, actually, and more like he just _did_ it one day).

It’s… nice, but it doesn’t ease the guilt he feels every time he wakes up and thinks he’s next to Cole at first. It doesn’t ease the guilt he feels when he imagines somebody else is underneath him moaning his name. It doesn’t ease the guilt he feels when _he_ slips and says the _wrong_ one— something that’s happened far more often than he’d like to admit. The guilt grows and piles and twists his stomach into knots— and it’s only gotten worse since Alan had told him those three words he’d never expected to hear.

 _"I love you_. _"_

He’d played it off like an accident, but Richie could tell it wasn’t. He could tell he _meant_ it. He could tell that he was only saying it was a mistake because he hadn’t reacted any more than just staring at him for a long, long minute. That same night, Alan had made an excuse that he needed to go back to his own apartment for something and didn’t return until the next morning, but when he did— there were fresh bruises on his neck that Richie knew he didn’t make himself.

Breathing out a sigh, he squeezes his eyes shut and runs his hand down his face. What a _mess_ he was in. He breathes out one more, quieter sigh and sits up straighter when he hears the door to the bedroom creak open. Throwing his arm over the back of the couch, he leans over to look at Alan with raised brows. He’s only in his robe— and Richie doesn’t have to guess to know there’s nothing underneath it. “Glad to see you finally decided to join the land of the living,” he says, “You should see the newspaper. They wrapped up that whole thing with the detective.” He has to bite his tongue— Cole was more than just _‘the detective’._

At that, Alan raises his own eyebrows— only to yawn a moment later, leaning against the doorway as he rubs at his eyes. “That's good,” he mumbles, voice low with sleep. Opening his eyes and crossing his arms, Alan lets his gaze run over Richie's whole form, a tired smile crossing his face when he raises his stare to the painter’s own face. “Hope he's doing alright with, uh— his partner. Bekowsky, something or other.” He waves a hand dismissively, but there's a distinct shift in his pleasant expression, a sudden frown tugging at his lips. He clicks his tongue once, looking away. “It's… it's not important.”

For a moment, Richie just stares at Alan, taking all of him in. His unruly blonde hair is tangled from last night’s tossing and turning, strands falling in his freckled face. Okay, if there’s anything he legitimately loved about the other man, no guilt required, it’s his _freckles_. They dot his nose and trail down to his shoulders, his arms, _further_. He could spend _hours_ just kissing every single one of them, as many as there are. Ah, wait, he’s stared for too long; Alan’s looking at him like he’s done something idiotic. He _has_ done something idiotic. Richie swallows hard; there’s a sudden flurry of butterflies in his stomach and he’s not quite sure what to attribute them to. With a shake of his head, he pats the spot next to him on the couch. “Come here and sit with me, Manhattan,” Richie says, and he gives him a rare, lazy grin. “We can talk about other things. _Do_ other things, if you want.”

Alan snorts and pushes off of the doorway, crossing the room to sit next to Richie. He doesn't say anything at first, not even when he's leaning into the other man and curling up close, his head against Richie's shoulder. “That sounds nice,” he says finally, hand coming up to rest on the painter's chest. “ _You_ sound nice. Better morning than usual?” He's looking into Richie’s eyes now, that hand beginning to rub softly.

Richie hums, pressing a kiss to the top of Alan’s head and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Seems so,” he says, and he doesn’t immediately continue, opting to bury his face in the other man’s hair instead. He just sits there, merely breathing in and out, enjoying the feeling of having a warm body pressed into him. Then, finally, his voice comes muffled. “Can’t say why because I’m not _sure_ why.” That’s a lie. “It’s nice being happy for a change, though.” That one isn’t. Mornings like this, ones where he feels truly alive, are out of the ordinary for him. Unable to stop his smile from spreading across his face, he holds Alan even closer. “You know, I don’t say this often enough but I’m glad you’re here.” That one’s the truth, too, for once. No guilt.

Grinning wide, Alan leans up to kiss Richie’s jaw, hand coming up to cup his cheek. He leans completely into the other man’s touch, closing his eyes and breathing a pleasant sigh. “I’m glad _you’re_ glad,” he says, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. “I was afraid you didn’t feel the same, honestly.”

Just like that, the guilt is back in full force. _Great_. Richie tries not to let it show— and he really, really hopes his efforts aren’t all for naught. “I mean, I _do_ enjoy having you around,” he says, and he breathes in deeply, “I’m just… working through things. A _lot_ of things.” That should be an acceptable answer; he knows Alan’s bore witness to those days where he just couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, where he couldn’t eat or drink or muster even a _forced_ smile. “I hope you understand.”

Despite Richie’s words, Alan doesn’t let his smile falter, not for a moment. “‘Course I do,” he says, hand creeping a bit lower— if he recognizes what he’s doing, he doesn’t show it. “We all have our own issues to deal with, y’know? Best we can do is _try._ ” His eyes flutter open and he pulls back to hold Richie’s gaze, sincere and loving. “I know we haven’t been together for long, but, uh—” His dappled cheeks color ever-so-slightly. “I’m proud of you.”

Richie inhales deeply. _Guilt, guilt, guilt_. He pushes it away, as far away as he can, and presses another kiss to the top of Alan’s head. “You always know what to say, huh, Manhattan?” He breathes out with a laugh. “Getting kind of handsy there, though. What’s really on your mind?”

Alan’s sincerity turns to seductivity, grin on his face as he regards Richie through half-lidded eyes. “Oh, I don’t know,” he feigns cluelessness, and in a flash he’s straddling the other man, legs on either sides of his hips. He doesn’t even wait to drop a witty comment— he already rolls his own hips, both hands cupping Richie’s face. “You, mostly.” He hums in a somewhat _teasing_ tone, leaning down enough for their lips to barely touch, mere inches away. “Do I even _have_ to elaborate, or do you get the gist?”

That gets a sharp inhale out of Richie (and an even worse reaction below the belt), but wasting no time, he moves to place his hands on Alan’s hips. “Maybe,” he says, “but I kind of like it when you elaborate. I _like_ hearing what you have to say.” He gives the other man’s hips a light squeeze. “I like _you_.”

Alan gives a small laugh, pressing himself down harder into Richie’s lap. “Well,” he starts, completely unfazed by the sensitive contact. “I’m thinking about your hands, roaming every inch of my body.” He shifts to get a better angle, leaning back to look Richie in the eyes, pushing him into the couch with his hands on his shoulders. “Thinking about every inch of _you_ as you hold me down, making me take it all.” He tilts his head to the side, staring down at the painter with a nigh unbearable amount of _lust_ in his gaze. “Is that enough for you?”

“Plenty,” Richie manages to get out, mouth suddenly incredibly dry. He lets his eyes drag across Alan’s form and that just makes his mouth _dryer_. “But you could tell me more while we’re doing that.”

Alan only grins in response, leaning down as if he’s going for a kiss— but he goes to whisper in Richie’s ear, low voice bringing a shiver to run down his spine. “Then, let’s not waste any time.”

All Richie does is nod before he starts fumbling with his belt.

 

* * *

 

Today is a cause for celebration.

That’s why Cole decided to invite not only his lovers, but nearly _everybody_ he was comfortable with to a night at _We Speak Latin._ He’s never been much of a social person, true, but… he’s changed. In so many little ways, he’s _changed._ He attributes most of that change to the two men he’s dedicated to spending his life with, and honestly? He _adores_ the influence they have on him. Stefan drew him out of his shell, Roy taught him to live life to its fullest— _so many little changes,_ and he’s thankful for every single one of them.

The three of them are at their very own table at the back of the _Latin,_ chatting it up and laughing and having a _good time,_ finally free from the pain that they’ve all shared since late September. Cole lowers his glass of watered down whiskey from his lips with a small hum, sitting up to look over the booth and through the packed crowd, eyes on the door. “Where _are_ they? It’s been— God, almost an hour?” He shakes his head, sitting back down a moment later. “If Jack was thinking about being late, Courtney wouldn’t have let him.”

Stefan snorts, taking a sip from his whiskey. “Depends on if _Courtney's_ the reason he wants to be late,” he says, and he gently nudges Cole in the side, grin on his face. “I mean, we're the same, aren't we?” He laughs at Cole's wide-eyed, horrified expression. “I'm _kidding_. I'm sure they have a perfectly good excuse besides being too caught up in one another.”

Cole gives an exaggerated shudder, leaning into Roy’s shoulder and shooting Stefan a fake glare. “Just because you’re _kidding_ doesn’t automatically make the images leave my mind,” he says, jabbing an accusatory finger into Stefan’s chest. “I swear, this is the start of your malicious plot to kill me for my inheritance.”

Stefan mock-gasps. “Why, I would _never,_ ” he says, hand to his chest like some kind of fainting Southern belle, “Where's your evidence for such a ridiculous claim?”

Before Cole can respond, Roy cuts in, rolling his eyes all the while. “Nobody’s killing anybody,” he says, and he throws back a generous swig of his scotch. He’s got his other arm behind Cole, fingers incessantly drumming against the booth. _Tap, tap,_ _tap_. “Not until _my_ plus one is here, anyway. Then it’s a free-for-all. I won’t give a shit.” Another sip of scotch. “Have an outright brawl, if you want.”

Cole can’t help but laugh, moving to lean into Stefan’s shoulder instead. “A brawl of _love,_ ” he downright coos, grinning wide as he gazes into the other man’s eyes.

Roy makes a face, sticking out his tongue. “Disgusting,” he says, but it’s obvious he doesn’t mean it, “Get a room.”

Under the table, Stefan nudges Roy’s leg with his shoe. “Only if you’re coming with us,” he says, eyebrows raised and grin not faltering for a minute.

Despite the continued look of fake disgust, it’s obvious Stefan’s words have _some_ effect on Roy— there’s a very distinct, very sudden tinge of pink to his cheeks. He coughs and takes another sip of his scotch, finishing it off and losing his one means of distraction in the process. “Shut up,” he says, setting his glass down and averting his gaze. His blush is only getting worse. “I mean, my God, we’re in public and—” He snorts. “I don’t see anywhere we can steal away to for a quick one.”

That gets another chuckle out of Cole, as he moves to link hands with either men at his sides. “We can wait, can’t we?” He glances between them with half-lidded eyes. “I, for one, would like to see how _patient_ you two can be.”

Stefan gives another snort. “That’s an awfully bold statement coming from _you_.”

Cole gasps in faux offense. “How _dare_ you,” he says, barely able to contain his laughter, “I’ll have you know that I’m being patient right _now_ while we wait for—” He catches a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eyes, sitting up and twisting around to see the two men he’s been waiting for making their way through the crowd. His face lights up with a grin. “ _—Jack!_ ”

Jack turns his attention towards them, a shockingly rare smile of his own on his face as he pulls Courtney towards their table. “Sorry we’re late,” he says, and he pauses to adjust his tie, “Uh— traffic. You know how Los Angeles is.”

Courtney snorts, opting to say nothing and only raising his eyebrows at Jack with a sly grin. Cole clears his throat a bit awkwardly then, letting go of his lovers’ hands for just a moment. “Well, you’re here now,” he says, gesturing to the booth seat across from them before letting his hands return to Stefan and Roy’s, offering Jack a sincere smile. “Take a seat, get comfortable. This place is _fantastic._ ”

Jack gives the other two men a polite nod and waits for Courtney to take a seat before moving to sit down himself. “I’m not much for clubs,” he admits, and he subtly moves to put his arm around Courtney's waist. “Never have been.” He coughs. “Uh, you already knew that, of course.”

Cole nods, taking a long sip from his drink. He lowers it a moment later. “Of course,” he says, turning his attention to Roy in avoidance of _anything_ regarding his and Jack’s past. “Now— where’s _your_ friend? I thought you said he was punctual.”

Roy hums and just like that, his fingers are tapping again. _Incessantly._ “He _is_ punctual,” he says, eyebrows furrowing as his gaze sweeps across the room. He breathes in deeply. “That’s why I’m wondering where the hell he is. It’s not like him to be _this_ late.”

As if on cue, there’s the sound of a man clearing his throat behind the trio of lovers; somehow, Roy had missed Harlan’s approach. “I apologize for making you all wait,” he says, his smooth Southern accent coming through. He’s about to continue, holding up a heavy folder, but he falls silent upon seeing Courtney and Jack, matching their shocked expressions with one of his own. He clears his throat, sending Roy a surprisingly apprehensive glance. “You did not tell me _who_ exactly our, erm… _other guests_ were.”

Roy opens his mouth to speak— he doesn't get a chance to before Jack's all-but-jumping to his feet. “You have a _lot_ of nerve showing your face, Fontaine,” he says, teeth grit and fists curled, “I've got things I want to say to you and most of them aren't friendly.”

Harlan takes a deep breath and sets the folder on the table, holding up his arms defensively. There’s something of genuine _remorse_ behind his tired eyes, the protective walls he’s built around himself having long been broken down. “Now, I am sure we can solve this issue without violence—”

Without a second of hesitation, Jack winds back and swings at Harlan's face, fist connecting with his eye. In that moment, all attention is on their table as Harlan goes stumbling back with his hand over his eye, obviously in great pain. Cole is the first to react, standing up the best he can while he’s stuck between Roy and Stefan and shooting Jack a bewildered glare. “ _Jack!_ ” He damn near barks. “What in the _world_ do you think you’re doing!?”

Seemingly unbothered by the reprimand, Jack merely shakes his fist out. “Just giving him what he deserves,” he says, practically spitting venom, “This is the bastard who—”

“ _Enough,_ ” Roy cuts in, sounding far too serious for once. He's moved to stand, one hand on Harlan's shoulder. “Now, I don't know what the Hell _your_ problem is, but you certainly don't know any of his, so lay off.” He turns his full attention to Harlan, then. “Let's go get you some ice from the bar before we go any further.”

Harlan inhales sharply, squeezing both eyes shut as he tries to steady his breathing. He jolts at the hand on his shoulder as if it’s another strike, wincing away, a reflex instilled by years of God knows what. “I came here to _help,_ ” he says finally, his usual calm demeanor having completely vanished. “That folder is filled with _everything_ I have on the Suburban Redevelopment Fund— this is my _peace offering._ ” He glances up at Jack with the one eye that isn’t covered by his hand, gaze almost _pleading_ him to stay quiet.

Jack merely stares at him for a long, long moment. Then, finally, he breathes out a deep sigh and averts his gaze. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I shouldn't have done that without hearing what you had to say first.” He tears his fingers through his hair. “Roy's right. You need ice.”

Courtney glances between them, baffled, reaching out to grab Jack’s sleeve. “Are you _serious?_ ” He hisses, tugging slightly. “You’re just going to drop it? After everything he’s _done?_ ”

“I know what I'm doing, Courtney,” Jack says, voice lowered. He moves to lace their fingers together and gives the other man's hand a tight squeeze. “I promise.” He breathes in deeply and sits down again. “I really am sorry, Fontaine. I'm sure you understand.”

Harlan swallows hard, nodding. “I do,” he says, uncharacteristically soft and _ashamed._ He looks away then, turning his attention to Roy with a pitiful attempt at a smile, weak and weary. “Ice?”

Roy gives him a nod of his own. “We'll be back,” he says, and he doesn't continue, not until him and Harlan are alone at the bar. He quickly waves down Lottie, who offers him a smile and a mouthed _‘just a minute.’_ Then, he focuses his eyes on Harlan. “Sure you're sick of the word _sorry,_ but— I had _no_ idea he’d fly off the handle like that.”

Running his hand down his face, Harlan shakes his head. “No, no, don't—” He breathes a deep sigh, head hung low and eyes shut tightly. “You do not have to apologize. I suppose I deserved it.” His fingers brush the swelling around his eye, causing him to flinch. “ _Heavens above._ I think it is safe to say that I have learned my lesson.”

Roy lets out a soft laugh, leaning on the bar and keeping his steady gaze on Harlan. “That must just be Kelso's style,” he says, “Punching things. He apparently clocked Cole a good one not that long ago.” He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, pushing back a few strands that had a mind of their own. “You going to be alright, buddy?”

Harlan gives a quiet hum and a nod, eyes flicking up to meet Roy’s. “Yes, eventually,” he says, attention snapping to the approaching bartender and offering him a polite, if a bit worn, smile.

Lottie raises his eyebrows upon seeing Harlan, sucking in air through his teeth. “Je- _sus,_ is _Rinty Monaghan_ in here? Your eye’s gonna swell shut.” He pushes the pack of ice towards the doctor with an awkward and slightly pitying grin. “Sorry, pal.”

Roy moves to take the ice pack before Harlan can, gently pressing it against his eye. “Easy, Lots,” he says, and he furrows his own eyebrows as he focuses on the other man’s face. He breathes in deeply. “I’ll have to give Kelso a talking to, later.” It comes off as a joke, but— Harlan knows he’s probably not actually kidding.

Harlan inhales with the full intent to respond— winces at the pressure, inadvertently jerking away. He returns with a clear of his throat and a mumbled _“apologies.”_ His silence persists for a few moments more, but he eventually speaks up with his uncovered eye on Roy’s face. “You know, I could have done this myself.” His words are soft.

Roy snorts slightly. “Probably,” he says, giving Harlan his most charming grin, “but just in case you forgot, I _like_ taking care of you. Somebody has to.” He shifts the ice pack just a bit, trying not to put _too_ much pressure on the other man’s eye. “You’re going to have a pretty nasty shiner. Have fun explaining that one to your patients.” He snorts again. “Tell ‘em you got in a bar fight and see if they believe that.”

That gets Harlan to chuckle, a rare genuine smile on his face. “Oh, Heavens, _none_ of them would believe me. I am afraid that I do not look the type.” He keeps his gaze on Roy as the man holds the pack of ice to his face, a round of silence passing between them. There are a great many things running through his mind— nothing good, but nothing too _bad_ either. Most are memories; he spent an awful lot of time with Roy after the other man came home from his deployment in Paris, and as far as Harlan’s concerned, that was the best year of his life. But things have… _changed,_ now. Too many things. Somewhere along the way _he_ changed, and if the last few months hold any merit, he changed for the _worse._ So with a deep sigh, Harlan moves away from the ice pack on his face, just so he can look directly into Roy’s eyes. “I would like to apologize for—” He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Everything. I would like to apologize for _everything._ ”

Eyebrows furrowing yet again, Roy purses his lips. “Well,” he starts, “I can’t say I forgive you _yet_ _,_ but— I think we can get there. Eventually.” He keeps his eyes locked onto Harlan’s, blue and as intense as they always are. “You’re just going to have to really, _really_ work for it, buddy.”

Harlan nods, his stare not faltering for even a moment. “Of course,” he says, offering a flash of a weary smile. It fades quickly. “I am more than willing to do so.” He finally breaks eye contact, gaze averted, his next words impossibly tender. “For you.”

At that, Roy gives him a sincere smile of his own. “Good,” he says, and he gently pats Harlan’s cheek, “We should head back to the table, but keep the ice on your face.” He holds the pack out to him. “Swelling’s already going down, but y’know, just as precaution.”

With a hum of acknowledgement, Harlan takes the ice pack and presses it to his eye. “Right,” he says, returning Roy’s smile with an equally as heartfelt one. “Thank you, Roy. I do not think it is within my ability to express how much I appreciate what you have done here.”

“Just being a friend, Harlan,” Roy says, “As I always have.”


End file.
